


WIDER THAN THE SKY

by Fee_Folay



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Aliens, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fee_Folay/pseuds/Fee_Folay
Summary: A series of injuries leave Kirk with little control over his mental “voice” - as it were. Spock offers assistance.





	WIDER THAN THE SKY

**Author's Note:**

>  Star Trek TOS was my first fandom. As a wee tyke, I used to sit next to my dad on the couch and watch the show. I was in charge of adjusting the rabbit ears as necessary and switching channels during commercials (because back then, you younglings, they didn’t have things called cable, satellite dishes, direct TV, or remotes – they just had child labor.) I was too young to really understand a lot of what was happening, but I knew I loved McCoy. Kirk was a hero to me, and Spock was … well, Spock, of course. I really liked how McCoy and Kirk and Spock were such good friends. Even as a child, I knew McCoy secretly liked Spock, even if he denied it.
> 
> Later, I watched the show again, through teenage eyes. I still doted over McCoy – my favorite curmudgeon (in fact, I first learned the word “curmudgeon” in honor of McCoy). I respected Spock, and I thought James Kirk was an unprincipled letch. At the time, as a girl shifting into womanhood I was struggling with my identity, and the way Kirk (and indeed the whole show) treated women was very troubling. But I still loved the Triumvirate. 
> 
> As an adult, I am able to see the complex layers of personality and interaction that define these three. I now realize Kirk has depths I was unable to see through younger, less experienced eyes. I can see beneath the cocky exterior now, and glimpse the hidden vulnerability. As a result, I have grown to love him as much as, if not more than, both of the others. I still adore McCoy, who seems like a favorite uncle on screen and am charmed by Spock. To this day, I think Kirk, Spock, and McCoy are some of the best characters ever created. Individually, they are (to coin a phrase) fascinating, and together they are magic! 
> 
> As the years have passed, my interest in Trek has waxed and waned depending upon what else I was into, but my love of TOS has never really dimmed. I could never seem to get into any of the other Trek series, but TOS is still as precious to me know as all those years ago, even with the outdated special effects and rather old fashioned sentiments about women (which I have chosen to overlook most of the time). 
> 
> And through all of this, I somehow could never manage to write TOS fanfiction! My first love, and yet the stories have always eluded me! Maybe this is because I was introduced to it so young, and seeing all those wonderful stories by older authors, I figured I could never measure up. Maybe it is due to the fact I love these characters so much, I just don’t think my writing can do them justice. Maybe it is because they were such a formative influence on me as a child. (It was Trek that taught me to dream of a brighter future.) – I don’t really know. I just know that after nearly 45 years of creating fanfic in one form or another, I have finally managed to complete a TOS story. 
> 
> I am not sure how to categorize this piece. It could both be gen and pre-slash, depending upon which pair of ‘glasses” you are wearing at the time you read it. I am not certain the characters even know… As someone who has always been willing to read either genre, maybe I could not help but write something ambiguous. I do hope both gen and slash readers will give it a try. 
> 
> P.S. Please note that I deliberately chose to use the term “Vulcanian” as an adjectival form of the word throughout my story. It *is* canon, and I always thought it rather unfortunate it was totally dropped later in the series. However, because it is so rarely used in Trek fiction it may strike readers as awkward. Let’s just say, I got tired of using “Vulcan” over and over again. “Vulcanian” provided a bit of variety.
> 
> Live long and prosper… and happy reading.
> 
>  
> 
> Note: This piece was previously published (2009) on my Livejournal site - which has not seen a lot of activity lately.

Captain's Log: Stardate 6211.4

 

We are moving into orbit around planet Ruel, home of Galaxcon One, the Galaxco Corporation's largest facility for the mining and processing of dyminiumite. We are here to deliver Starfleet negotiator Mei-Lee Twong to act as intermediary in an ongoing dispute between the miners on Ruel and the management of Galaxco Corporation. As Ruel provides nearly twenty-five percent of all the dyminiumite used within the Federation, it is hoped that Secretary Twong will be able to settle matters before they escalate any further. We currently also have aboard a team of Federation scientists, including renowned Ithenite anthropologist, Doctor Tarleton Nar-Qi. We are transporting them to planet Torrus and are due to deliver them within seven days; however both Galaxco and worker representatives have requested Doctor McCoy conduct standard health checks on all employees. In the interest of fostering good will among all parties, we have agreed. Doctor McCoy assures me that the delay will be minimal and we will arrive at Torrus with time to spare. I will be taking advantage of our short stop over to beam down with First Officer Spock and take a personal look into the situation planetside.

 

"Captain?" The dulcet tones of Lieutenant Uhura commanded Captain Kirk's attention, and he tapped a finger down on the log button, bringing the entry to a close. He had included all the relevant information needed. The fact that the outspoken Doctor Nar-Qi and his team were disrupting the smooth operation of his ship was beside the point. However, he would be very grateful to deposit Nar-Qi on Torrus as soon as possible. He was growing a bit weary of fielding the Ithenite’s unreasonable demands.

 

"Yes, Lieutenant?” He swung his chair to face the lovely, bronze skinned communication's officer.

 

Her head was cocked slightly to one side, her hand on her earpiece as she listened intently to an incoming transmission.

 

"Mister Carter and the Galaxco representative are standing by on Ruel. They are asking if you are ready to beam down."

 

Kirk nodded and glanced towards the diminutive oriental woman standing quietly along side the bridge rail, her porcelain features composed in soft lines of contemplation as she gazed at the small planet rotating on the forward screen. One slim hand absently fingered the end of a long fishtail braid that fell over her shoulder

 

Personally, Kirk couldn't find much on the screen to recommend the view. Ruel was a compact ball of rust and ocher, partially obscured by atmospheric dust, hardly a breathtaking sight.

 

"Secretary Twong?" He leaned forward slightly, pitching his voice to reach Twong and call her out of her reverie. "If you are ready we can join the rest of the mediation team?"

 

Twong turned to study him with imperturbable almond eyes. "I am ready whenever you are, Captain Kirk," she announced, lifting a delicately pointed chin.

 

Kirk started to give a skeptical shake of his head and caught himself. It was hard to imagine that this slight woman would be a very effective mediator in any hard-core dispute between labor and management. Hell, a sneeze could knock her over, and even on tip-toe, she barely reached his chin. Still, he reminded himself to refrain from passing judgment. He had made the mistake of letting slip just such a sentiment in a turbo-lift while flanked by his first officer and chief medical officer and had found himself assailed from both sides. While the doctor muttered quaint platitudes about not making reading selections based upon book covers, Spock had reeled off a list of Secretary Twong's many accomplishment, including corralling the Tam into the Federation and negotiating a peace between the Gorn and their former prey, the Wasshu. Kirk had been forced to admit that anyone who could get the Gorn to agree to anything had more than earned his respect. Luckily, the turbo ride had ended before he was compelled to prostrate himself on the floor and beg forgiveness.

 

"Lieutenant.” He turned his attention back to Uhura. "Tell Mister Carter that we will be beaming down. Have Doctor McCoy meet us in the transporter room along with the medical personnel he's taking to help with the health checks."

 

"Yes, Captain." Her small hands were already dancing capably over the communication console as he bounced to his feet.

 

"Mister Spock?" Gathering the Vulcan first officer with a nod, Captain James Kirk strode towards the turbo lift, curtailing his customary haste just long enough for a show of gallantry by allowing Miss Twong to step into the lift first. "Mister Sulu," he mandated, "you have the con."

 

"Yes sir!" He caught the bright flash of a pleased smile from the helmsman in the moment before the lift doors hissed shut.

 

Dr. McCoy met them in the transporter room, trailing four of his blue clad medical technicians like dutiful ducklings.

 

"Five of you?" Kirk eyed the flock of medical personnel in consternation. "Bones, I thought you said this wasn't a big deal."

 

McCoy looked up from adjusting his tricorder, an eyebrow flaring at the hint of censure in Kirk's tone. "And I thought you said you wanted this done ASAP, Captain, sir."

 

"Yes, well..." Locking horns with Leonard McCoy was a chancy business even from a position of strength. The fact that he _had_ been the one to suggest the CMO do whatever necessary to get the job done quickly left Kirk at a definite disadvantage. In this case, discretion was indeed the better part of valor, and Kirk turned expeditiously to address transporter chief, Kyle. "Have you got the coordinates from Ruel?"

 

The blond head bobbed. "Yes sir, they're locked in."

 

"Good. Spock and I will beam down in the first group. McCoy," he waved an invitation at the doctor, "you're with us. Have the rest of your people follow us down." He leapt onto the transporter platform.   "Let's get this dog and pony show on the road.

 

"Dog and pony show, Captain?" Spock was at his elbow, dark head tilted at the characteristic angle that meant something didn't quite compute.

 

Kirk's boyish features softened with a wisp of a smile. Clarifying Human colloquialisms to his Vulcan first officer was a favorite pastime; however, in this case, he didn't have the least idea from what context the phrase 'dog and pony show' derived. "Later, Mister Spock," he chided, covering his ignorance with command bluster.   "We're due on Ruel."

 

***

 

Ruel up close and personal was no more appealing than Ruel on the view screen Kirk concluded as the landing party materialized on a flat plateau of rock in the middle of a parched landscape of scattered boulders and blowing dust.

 

"Lovely vacation spot," McCoy muttered, his blunt features taking on a dour cast as he surveyed their desolate surroundings. He gave a cautious sniff, nose wrinkling in repugnance. "What _is_ that smell?"

 

In consideration of the three individuals awaiting them at the entrance to the Galaxcon One main building, Kirk refrained from comment, but even he couldn't help reflexively pinching his nose closed when a particularly foul gust of malodorous vapor assailed his nostrils.

 

" _That_ gentlemen," Spock informed his shipmates as he consulted his whirring tricorder, "is the aroma of unrefined dyminiumite."

 

"It stinks!" asserted a pert, brunette medical tech, concisely summing up the situation. Her freckled nose wrinkled in distaste.

 

Spock also scented the air with thoughtful expression. "Interesting. I do not find the smell particularly unpleasant."

 

"Figures," McCoy scowled sullenly at the Vulcan. "Just another example of your screwed up physiology, Mister Spock."

 

"Gentlemen," Kirk warned under his breath as the welcoming party approached.

 

"Captain Kirk!" One of the approaching party broke from the others to hurry forward. Tall, amber-toned and strikingly handsome, he grasped Kirk's hand in both of his, giving a vigorous shake. "Such a pleasure to meet you, Captain. Welcome to Ruel. I'm Holland Carter, CEO here at Galaxcon One." Despite the dusty wind, not a silver hair dared stir from its place. Carter's grey eyes glinted in satisfaction as he flashed Kirk a dazzling smile, flawless teeth gleaming from beneath a neatly trimmed moustache.

 

Kirk judiciously extracted his hand from the too firm grip, and returned the smile.   He tried to curb his instinctive dislike of the Galaxco representative, but it was difficult. Perfect people made him wary.

 

Carter had gone on to tender greetings to the rest of the landing party and Kirk found himself playing catch up with introductions of Secretary Twong and his officers.

 

The remaining two members of the welcoming committee had paused on the fringe of the beam down site, and Carter turned to wave them forward.

 

"Captain Kirk. Secretary Twong. May I introduce Lara Hjelmfelt and her assistant, Del Rocas, one of our foremen. Hjelmfelt has been elected to represent the dyminiumite miners."

 

Another woman Kirk noted, automatically cataloguing the differences between Hjelmfelt and Secretary Twong. Where Twong was spun Deltan glass, Hjelmfelt was solid as a fallout shelter. Almost as broad as she was tall, she studied the visitors with shrewd dark eyes from beneath a prickly thatch of yellow hair that sat atop her head like a clump of straw. Kirk imagined she could snap Twong in half with one hand. This was going to be interesting.

 

Almost as though reading his thoughts, McCoy gave him a swift kick in the shin. "Book covers, Jim," he mumbled out of one corner of his mouth.

 

For his part, Del Rocas hovered in the background, a man of medium build, dull brown hair, sallow skin, and unremarkable features - the type to be easily overlooked - which is precisely why Kirk found himself keeping a watchful eye on Hjelmfelt's assistant. He was as leery of calculated unexceptionality as he was of synthetic perfection.

 

Then again, maybe he was just paranoid.

 

"Please," Carter invited in gracious tones, gesturing towards the opaque dome of Galaxcon One rising out of the wasteland like a delicate soap bubble amid desolation. "Let's move into the main complex. It's much more pleasant there." He grasped Twong gently by the elbow. "We can have a drink in my office."

 

"Mister Carter," Kirk smoothly intervened, "we would like to get things underway as soon as possible. The Enterprise does have other engagements pending.   I'm sure you can understand our position. If you could show Doctor McCoy and his staff to your medical facilities, I think Mister Spock and I would like to take a look at some of the dyminiumite mines...." He answered Carter's plastic smile with one of his own. "If that is not too much of an imposition."

 

The mines were the main source of contention between the Galaxco Corporation and their workers. The miners claimed the mining facilities were unsafe and that Galaxco was doing nothing to address the problems. Kirk felt he would be better able to give Starfleet an accurate report if he were able to get a look at the mines himself.

 

"But Captain," a hint of reproach colored Carter's urbane tones, "surely a drink..."

 

"That arranged can be," Lara Hjelmfelt interrupted, stepping forward to plant herself firmly in front of Kirk. "Rocas and I take to mines you we will. Come now you." Without awaiting a reply, she turned and began marching off in the direction of a waiting air car.

 

Rocas appeared as taken aback by this abrupt announcement as Kirk, and scuttled after Hjelmfelt filling her ear with an undertone of grated protests.

 

Kirk liked to imagine his own surprise was somewhat less obvious. He turned casually to his first officer and waved a hand after the retreating miners. "I think we've been invited on a tour, Mister Spock."

 

"If that was an invitation," McCoy commented, rocking on his heels, "I'd hate to see her idea of a mandate."

 

"Captain Kirk."

 

Kirk marveled as Mei-Lee Twong maneuvered herself out of Carter's grip using a move obviously perfected over long practice and accomplished with such finesse that the administrator couldn't possibly take offense, "I would like to accompany you to the mines. The more information I can gather concerning both sides of this issue the better able I will be to help negotiate a resolution."

 

Kirk smiled agreeably, deriving petty satisfaction from even this small opportunity to best the impeccable Carter. "That's fine with me Miss Twong, but I think we’d better get moving. Miss Hjelmfelt does not strike me as the patient type.” Leaving behind a rather crestfallen Mister Carter, he trotted towards the aircar. "Come on, Spock," he called, shooting a devilish look over his shoulder at his first officer. "Last one aboard is a rotten egg!" He almost laughed as the eyebrows flew. That particular "Humanism" was sure to keep the Vulcan in mental knots for some time to come.

 

****

 

Lara Hjelmfelt proved to be an excellent pilot, guiding the air car around dangerous outcropping of rock and skillfully riding the strong winds that buffeted the craft as they skimmed over the barren surface of Ruel.

 

"Let's take them to Mine Four," Rocas suggested from his seat behind Hjelmfelt. "It's the closest one."

 

"No," Hjelmfelt manipulated the controls, deftly steering them around a particularly nasty rock formation. "To Mine Two go we. There most danger is. There see they."

 

The mystery of Hjelmfelt's non-standard use of grammar had been cleared up when she explained she was originally from Lolio, a colony where the native tongue was not Standard, but a derivative trade language that allowed colonists and vendors from a variety of cultures and settlements to communicate more easily.

 

"Mine Two is too dangerous," argued Rocas. "Something could happen. I think we should go somewhere else."

 

Hjelmfelt favored her assistant with a particularly nasty smile. "Galaxco say not danger is there. Galaxco say Mine Two safe is. Mine Two go we."

 

Rocas glanced at his wrist chronometer and shifted uneasily in his seat. "Lara..."

 

"Mine Two go we!" Hjelmfelt stated with a finality rooted in bedrock, and Kirk doubted anything short of a supernova would move her.

 

Rocas seemed to agree. He slumped back in his seat with a defeated sigh. "Okay. Mine Two it is." He glanced at Kirk, Spock, and Secretary Twong. "If you're going into the mines, you'll need equipment. Coveralls and hardhats. It's policy." The foreman rose and moved towards the back of the air car. "We've got some stored in the back here. I should be able to fix you up with something suitable." He started digging through storage lockers. "In fact, that is one of the points of contention between the miners and Galaxco. The technology exists for the use of miniaturized repulsar fields built into mining gear. Individual forcefields that surround and protect the wearer, thus negating the need for hardhats. The equipment is available on the market, Captain, but Galaxco claims the cost is prohibitive." He located some of the supplies he was looking for and began extracting it from the lockers. "The miners are using equipment that is decades out of date."

 

The coveralls turned out to be one piece pullovers of a brilliant yellow color. Kirk supposed made them easy to spot in the dim lighting of the mines. Unfortunately, the color also clashed horribly with Spock's pale-green skin tones, making him appear jaundiced and unwell.

 

"Mister Spock," Kirk noted as he fastened the high collar of his own coverall, "this color does not suit you."

 

"Indeed," Spock studied his helmet, also bright yellow, before settling it in place over his neat cap of sable hair. "I did not realize you were a follower of fashion, Captain."

 

"I'm not," Kirk spread his arms, testing the fit of the coveralls, "but I know enough to know that yellow is definitely not your color."

 

Spock handed a helmet to his Captain and watched studiously as he donned it. Kirk had already tried to wheedle out of having to wear the cumbersome headgear. "All the more reason you should avoid risking yourself as I would then be required to assume command, and the current tunics of Starfleet captains are gold in hue."

 

Kirk smiled up from beneath the rim of the helmet. "Touché, Mister Spock."

 

A suggestion of humor tugged at one corner of the Vulcan's mouth. "Merely my quite logical concern that Starfleet not loose a highly proficient captain," he responded, not quite quoting a phrase etched with uncommon clarity upon their shared memories - Spock's rather unsuccessful attempt to explain away his less than Vulcanian display of elation upon learning that he had not actually killed his captain and friend on Vulcan following a botched marriage ceremony with T'Pring of Vulcan.

 

"Of course, Mister Spock," They'd both acknowledged the hidden truths behind that particular snow-job long time ago. The smile blossomed into a familiar audacious grin. "In a pig's eye!"

 

The other corner of Spock's mouth quirked upward, and the humor was no longer merely suggested.

 

The exchange and variations thereof had become a form of playful verbal sparring between the two, employed on those occasions Spock felt the need to caution his captain concerning his tendency towards unnecessary risk taking. Occasions which occurred too often for Spock's comfort.

 

"At least yours fit." Secretary Twong, came shuffling up, rolling up the sleeves of her coveralls.

 

At the sound of her voice, Spock straightened and turned, all traces of emotion vanishing into remote equanimity. So swift was the transition that, had he blinked, Kirk would have missed it. Something twisted in his chest. He had seen that instantaneous shift into Vulcanian detachment time and time again, but it never ceased to give him pause. How very precious was the friendship he shared with this being. Spock's smile, be it no more that a slight upward curve of the lips and a twinkle in the depths of those dark eyes, was something James Kirk tried very hard never to take for granted.

 

"Do you require assistance?" the Vulcan asked, observing the excess fabric puddling around the Secretary's feet.

 

"No." Twong bent and began working on her cuffs. "I've got it."

 

When she straightened, Kirk was ready with her hardhat. He placed it on her and fought to stifle a laugh when it nearly swallowed her head.

 

"I don't think I'll be able to get a very good idea of conditions in the mine if I can't even see," Twong noted in annoyance, her voice echoing in the confines of the helmet.

 

"Allow me," Spock offered. Removing her headgear, he made a few swift adjustments to the straps before handing it back.

 

This time when she slipped it on, the fit, though far from perfect, allowed her an unobstructed view.   She smiled gratefully at the Vulcan. "Why thank you, Mister Spock. If negotiations on Ruel are successful, we may owe it you."

 

Spock merely hoisted an eyebrow, but Kirk gave him a teasing once over. "Maybe you should consider the diplomatic corps, Mister Spock. They might have use of your unique talents."

 

"You. Come now. This way." Hjelmfelt was beckoning them to follow from the opening of the mine.

 

"Well, I don't think we'll get lost," Kirk commented as they wended their way among the girders at the mine entrance, trailing after the robust Hjelmfelt. In her yellow coveralls, she was about as easy to miss as an exploding sun.

 

***

 

The mouth of the mine was a large cavern, branching off into numerous smaller tunnels. Various pieces of mining equipment lay scattered about or piled on cargo barges that rumbled ponderously in and out of the passageway. Miners milled around the complex like bright-yellow industrious ants, some riding cargo barges, some driving mole-diggers, many armed with nothing more sophisticated than laser bores and shovels. And the reek of dyminiumite pervaded everything.

 

Eyes watering from the stench, Kirk did not even bother with diplomacy this time. He pinched his nose shut and swore.

 

Spock did not seem to be effected, but Twong was holding her breath and grimacing when they paused before the entrance to one of the conduits.

 

"Here go we," Hjelmfelt announced, pointing down a dim mineshaft.

 

"No," objected Rocas. "That tunnel's too dangerous." He turned to Kirk. "We don't even send miners down there anymore. The supports are too unstable."

 

"There we go!" Hjelmfelt bellowed, stamping one boot hard into the packed earth of the floor. "Galaxco say this tunnel work we must again. Galaxco say here no danger is. How Twong know conditions be if not see she?"

 

Kirk frowned. His concern was for the safety of his crew, and in this case, he felt that responsibility extended to Twong as well. "If this tunnel isn't safe..." he began, but Twong interrupted.

 

"Captain. It is my job to get as complete a picture of everything going on here as I can before bringing both parties to the table. Now, I can't very well negotiate terms if I don't know what the issues are, can I?" She faced him with the familiar resolute tilt of her chin. "I'm going into that tunnel. What you and Mister Spock choose to do is your own business, but you do not speak for me." With that, she took a step closer to Hjelmfelt and the two women turned expectant gazes on the captain and his first officer. For his part, Mister Spock did not venture an opinion one way or the other, but waited patiently to take his cue from James Kirk. And James Kirk was not the kind of man to stand around twiddling his thumbs while others, especially two women, went tromping off into peril.

 

"Okay," he snapped in clipped tones. "Let's go."

 

***

 

The tunnel was built large enough to accommodate mining vehicles, and it sloped slightly downward as they progressed. Intermittently placed glow bars provided a sickly yellow light that threw every rock and crevasse into high relief. Kirk found himself grateful for the additional softer lighting of the illum-panels incorporated into their hardhats. As they made their way deeper into the mine, the smell of dyminiumite became nearly debilitating, and Kirk wondered if they would be able to continue. However, just as he was considering calling a halt on medical grounds, the odor seemed to dissipate. Or perhaps, Kirk mused, their noses were finally overcome and simply died a quiet death.

 

While an anxious Rocas hung back behind the others, Hjelmfelt began to point out areas she claimed were structurally unsound and in need of shoring. Twong dutifully recorded her narrative on a tricorder, neither affirming nor denying the miner's commentary.

 

When Kirk turned to his first officer to ask his assessment, the Vulcan ran his own tricorder over an area in dispute before stepping closer to finger some of the fissures in the rock face. "There is an area of structural weakness," he concluded, flicking some chips of rock free of the crevasse, "but whether it constitutes an immediate danger is debatable."

 

"It is dangerous!" Del Rocas fretted, glancing pleadingly back the way they'd come. "We must get out of here now!"

 

Kirk's hazel eyes narrowed intently and he shot a silent query towards Spock. There was something amiss with the foreman's behavior.

 

"Indeed," the Vulcan observed, picking up on his captain's speculation as clearly as if Kirk had shouted it in one pointed ear. "Your reaction seems somewhat extreme under the circumstances. The actual risk involved is minimal."

 

"Yes, Mister Rocas," Kirk began, tone hard, "I'd be curious to know why you are so convinced..."

 

"Captain," Twong called, interrupting his interrogation, "in here." She waved one hand before following Hjelmfelt into a smaller side passage.

 

"Damn," Kirk muttered in exasperation. "Why won't they stay _put_." He turned back to Rocas, wondering if he'd have time to finish his question, but the foreman had turned on his heel and was rapidly scurrying back down the mine shaft.

 

Kirk threw up his hands with a frown of disgust.

 

"Shall I retrieve Mister Rocas?” Spock inquired, his expression bordering on sympathetic.

 

Kirk couldn't help a glint of amusement as he speculated on just how the Vulcan would accomplish that particular task. "No Mister Spock. Let's finish the tour. We can always question Rocas later."

 

They caught up with Hjelmfelt and the secretary some distance down the narrower side conduit.

 

"Here see you," Hjelmfelt was orating while pointing to the ceiling overhead. "Here not rock is. Here dirt is. Weak point is. New passages like this many. Too much dirt. Solid not. More foundation beams needs. Galaxco say no. Say expensive too much."

 

Spock was studying the walls of the tunnel with interest. "She is correct, Captain. The walls in this passage have a substantially lower percentage of rock face than those we have previously traversed; however, there is no additional support provided. If she is accurate in her claims of other passages being similar in composition, it would appear that Galaxco has been negligent in their implementation of appropriate safety measures."

 

"So, it is dangerous," Kirk asked, pressing a hand against the cool packed earth and stone of the passage wall.

 

"I would estimate there is a 32.4 percent danger of collapse of some portion of this tunnel within the next eight months."

 

"I see." Kirk's lips flattened into a hard line. "I would say that constitutes a clear and present danger, wouldn't you, Mister Spock?"

 

"Affirmative."

 

Kirk turned to the two women. "Well, ladies, I think we've seen enough. There certainly does seem to be some question of the structural integrity of some of these tunnels. Now it is up to Ms. Twong to bring the matter to the attention of Galaxco and..."

 

Somewhere nearby something exploded in a roar that shook the tunnel walls and dislodged a shower of dirt and pebbles down on the startled team of investigators. The initial concussion was followed by a menacing rumble that slowly grew louder like the growl of some gargantuan beast fast approaching.

 

"Spock!" Kirk cried in alarm, "We've got to get out of here!"

 

The Vulcan was already moving. Pausing only long enough to determine that both Hjelmfelt and the captain were following, he grasped Twong by the arm and began urging her quickly down the passageway in the direction they'd come.

 

As the four pelted down the tunnel, the ominous sound of collapse grew nearer. Ahead, one of the support beams was beginning to bow under the strain of falling earth and rock, its screech of protest sounding like the death cry of a living creature. The unnerving shriek resonated through Kirk's back molars.

 

Hjelmfelt stumbled to a halt, staring at the buckling girder in horror. "It not hold! We be here tapped!"

 

Spock reacted in an instant. Passing Twong to Kirk, he dashed forward and hurled himself beneath the collapsing beam.

 

"Spock, no!"

 

Kirk's plea came too late. The first officer had already positioned himself to reinforce the tunnel support. Legs braced, back planted against the crumbling wall, Spock reached overhead and shoved upward with all his Vulcanian strength, holding the girder in place. "Captain," he gritted between clenched teeth. "I'd advise alacrity."

 

Kirk clamped down on a curse and moved, discarding courtesy as he roughly shoved Twong and Hjelmfelt beneath the unstable beam and past Spock to the relative safety of the passageway beyond. "Keep going!" he shouted, giving them a push in the direction of the tunnel opening. "Run!" As the two women disappeared down the shaft, Kirk turned back to his first officer. "Come on, Spock! The ceiling’s coming down!"

 

The Vulcan’s head was thrown back, his lips drawn away from his teeth in an anguished grimace. The straining tendons in his neck stood out like taut cables beneath the skin, and Kirk could read Spock's rapid pulse in the throbbing veins of his temples. "Captain," he gasped between shuddering breaths. "I regret... I cannot... comply. I will attempt… to hold the beam... until you reach safety... but you must... go now."

 

"No!" Kirk snapped. "I'm not leaving you!" He'd understood Spock's plight immediately. If Spock were to let go of the beam, the roof of the tunnel would collapse and bury him before he had time to get out of the way, but Kirk also realized that the weight of the cave in would soon overwhelm even Vulcanian endurance. Spock was trapped.

 

There was a groan of protest, whether from the Vulcan or the failing support girder was not certain.

 

"Captain... it would be... illogical for both of us... to perish..."

 

"I told you," Kirk insisted tenaciously, silently cursing collapsing tunnels and stubborn Vulcans alike, "I'm not leaving!" Instead, he braced himself opposite his first officer, reaching up to buttress the girder and add his strength to the doomed endeavor.

 

Spock was glaring at him in despair, and Kirk had no doubts that if he hadn't had his hands full, the Vulcan would have tossed him down the tunnel on his ass. "Captain... Jim, please!"

 

But Kirk just firmed his resolve and his muscles and pushed harder.

 

Dirt and rocks sifted down, a larger chunk ricocheted off Kirk's hardhat with an impact that bounced his head on his neck like a spring and snapped his teeth together. Had he not been wearing the helmet, the stone would likely have crushed his skull. Another one he owed the Vulcan he supposed. If they ever got out of this, he'd try and remember to mention it.

 

His feet slipped in the loose gravel and he went down on one knee, feeling pain flare as shards of rock tore through his coveralls into flesh. A shower of debris followed, striking his head and shoulders, smashing him down like the angry fist of a giant. He ended on hands and knees, spitting dirt.

 

"Jim!" Spock thrust upward with all he had, shoring up the collapsing ceiling long enough for Kirk to pull himself to his feet.

 

Leaning heavily against the tunnel wall, Kirk admitted to himself that this was not going to work. In moments they would both be buried alive. He glanced up, seeking the Vulcan through the haze of dust in the air. For an instant frozen in time, dark eyes locked with hazel in shared acknowledgement of the inevitable. No condemnation in Spock's gaze, but a glimmer of sadness - not for himself, but for Kirk. Kirk caught the Vulcan's near imperceptible nod, concession to forces beyond control of even the most determined starship captain. Acceptance and understanding.

 

He broke away from the Vulcan and stumbled a short distance down the tunnel. Hands on knees, he coughed heavily, choking on air full of dust.

 

"Hurry, Jim..." he heard Spock call after him, relief evident in his rasping tone. "I can hold it... only for... a short time..."

 

Kirk took a few more reluctant, staggering steps down the tunnel, then stopped, twisting back to gaze silently at the slender figure nearly obscured by a shower of falling debris and dirt. _No, not like this…_

 

Jaw firming, eyes narrowing, Kirk made a decision.

 

 _Sorry my friend_ , he projected in silent challenge, _you should know you can't get rid of me that easily._ Taking a deep breath, he threw back his shoulders in preparation for what he was about to do. "Spock!" he yelled, attracting the Vulcan's attention, then charged back down the tunnel towards his startled first officer.

 

In the instant before impact, Spock apparently realized his captain's intent. He let go of the beam and launched himself away from the collapsing roof just as Kirk tackled him. Their combined momentum carried the two of them into the passageway beyond the support girder.

 

There was a thunderous roar as the ceiling collapsed, the deluge of rubble swallowing all the world in a tidal-wave of sound and darkness. Something heavy fell across Kirk's back and pain exploded like shrapnel, shredded his consciousness into fluttering ribbons. If he screamed, it was lost in the wall of sound that carried him down into darkness.

 

***

McCoy scrutinized the readout on his scanner and nodded in satisfaction. "Thank you," he told the burly miner seated on the edge of the diagnostic couch. "That will be all. If you'll see one of the techs, they'll have some forms for you to sign."

 

The miner nodded and slid off the bed, and McCoy fed the new set of readings for miner Joseph Hamish into the records computer. They'd nearly completed the health checks on the Beta shift and aside from a pair of inflamed tonsils, a Tellarite with skin fungus, some strained muscles, assorted hang-nails and dandruff problems, they crew seemed to be in excellent condition. The employees of Galaxcon One might have some complaints with their parent company, but McCoy doubted medical care was one of them. The company seemed to be doing an admirable job of insuring the continued health of their workers.

 

"Well, Breem," he murmured handing the latest record tape to the powder-blue Andorian standing at his side. "If the rest of the galaxy were in as good a shape as these miners, you and I would be out of a job."

 

"A regrettable sssituation," the tech agreed, blue antennae curling to let McCoy know he was attempting a joke. "If you wish I could procure more patientsss for you.   I am well trained in Yev-t'ah."

 

"Yev-taa?"

 

"Yev-t'ah. The art of applying pressure to precise points of the Humanoid sskeleton in order to ssnap boness."

 

McCoy blinked and checked the antennae once more. They remained curled, but the doctor still felt compelled to offer a dissuasive comment. "I don't think that will be necessary, Breem. As long as there are Klingons and Romulans, they'll be a need for doctors. Klingons, Romulans.... and stubborn starship captains," he added almost as an after thought.

 

"Yes," agreed Breem. "Captain Kirk has fire in his heart. He would have made a good Andorian."

 

"Yeah, well. We Humans have a name for that kind of fire. It's called heartburn. Now skedaddle and get me my next patient," McCoy softened the command with a smile. Breem had only been part of his staff a few months, but McCoy found he liked the young Andorian.   Andorians were by nature an aggressive race, and it was unusual for one to show interest in the healing arts. Though Breem never spoke of it, McCoy suspected his decision to practice medicine had been the source of much ridicule from his clan.

 

"Yess, Doctor." Breem headed towards the waiting area only to collide at full speed into an agitated Holland Carter.

 

Record tapes went flying as the Galaxco representative knocked the Andorian aside without so much as a glance. "Doctor McCoy," Carter pleaded, "Come quickly! There's been a terrible disaster!"

 

If Carter was hoping for histrionics, he wasn't going to get it.   McCoy had dealt with enough administrative types to know that a "terrible disaster" could run the gamut from Klingon invasion to a tribble in someone's soup. "What's the problem?" he inquired dryly, snatching up his portable tricorder, just in case the disaster was further towards the invasion end of the continuum.

 

The previously unflappable Carter was practically wringing his hands. "There's been some sort of accident in one of the mines. A cave-in or something!"

 

"Any one hurt?"

 

"I don't know! There've been some reports of minor injuries, but I'm afraid your captain and first officer have been trapped by a collapsed tunnel!"

 

"Of course," McCoy muttered. A whole damn planet to play on and somehow Jim Kirk managed to end up at ground zero. The man's penchant for getting himself and his Vulcan side-kick into trouble was uncanny. Gathering up the rest of his equipment, he turned to the Andorian tech who was still scrambling around trying to retrieve his record tapes. "Breem, leave that. Get the others together. Looks like we may earn our pay today after all." He stalked out of the room after Carter. "Klingons, Romulans and stubborn starship captains," he repeated under his breath, fighting to douse the all too familiar spark of fear that was beginning to flare inside him, feeding on his worries and imagination.

 

 

***

 

Ignoring the sharp fragments of stone that abraded his fingers and tore the tender flesh under his nails, Spock clawed his way free of a pile of rubble and spat out a mouthful of grit. He was aware that standard medical guidelines stipulated one should not move until time had been taken to assess the extent of injuries, however, concern for the captain impelled him to action. He paused only long enough to allow his Vulcanian eyesight to adjust to the near total darkness. The closest glow bars had been destroyed in the cave-in, and the only light appeared to come from his own hardhat, still miraculously secure atop his head.

 

"Jim..." he rasped, the name catching in his throat like a dry stick, sending him into a fit of coughing as his body tried to clear dust from his lungs.   When he found breath for words he repeated the call, but there was no answer. Crawling over the tunnel wreckage, he scanned the gloom in an anxious search. In the dim light, every shadow resembled a twisted limb, every pool of darkness could be a broken body. Something shiny caught in his light and he reached, fingers brushing the smooth metal of Kirk's hardhat. It was half buried in the detritus, and for a moment of anguish he feared he had located his Captain's body smothered beneath the fallen debris. However, the helmet came loose from the dirt easily. It must have had been dislodged in the accident and rolled free.   Spock turned it in his hands. The illum-panel was cracked and shorted out, and a dent marred the side.   The crumpled area was large, biting deeply into the protective cavity of the headgear, and a cold dread filled Spock as he envisioned the fragile Human skull inside, cracked open like an egg.

 

He sat back on his heels, fingers tightening almost convulsively on the rim of the hardhat. "Jim..."

 

He'd been listening to the sounds of settling for some time, listening and filtering out the groans of stressed supports, the hiss of dirt shifting through cracks, but now there was something different, a bare catch of breath, a soft moan...

 

"Jim!" He scrambled over the wreckage and half slid, half fell to the ground beside his Captain. The coppery tang of Human blood and salty spice of Human perspiration assaulted Spock's nostrils, nearly overwhelming his senses as he leaned close to his captain. Slender Vulcanian fingers passed lightly over sprawled limbs, assessing and soothing. In this, the darkness proved both friend and foe. It hid the horrors of Kirk's worst injuries from Spock's sight, but it also hampered his attempts to apply first aid. Kirk was belly down in the debris, pinned beneath a fallen girder, but he had managed to turn his head and was sucking in great gulps that seemed composed as much of dirt as of air. Spock quickly cleared away some of the earth, giving him room to breathe freely. "Captain? Can you hear me?"

 

"Spock..." Kirk croaked, one hand flailing weakly in the dirt beside him. Spock covered the fingers with his own. "Don't move, Captain. I shall endeavor to free you."

 

The girder had fallen across Kirk's lower back, and beyond it rose wall of rubble. From the hips down, Kirk was buried in twisted metal, broken slabs of concrete, rocks, and soil. Spock cleared some of the detritus from around Kirk's body, tossing aside large chunks of rock and twisted, metal girders as though they were filled with helium. Trying to shift the heavy beam off the Captain's body, he dug his fingers under the edge of the metal support and lifted...

 

Kirk screamed, his agonized shriek exploding in the close darkness. The shock of sound sent Spock's heart leaping into overdrive, and he jerked convulsively, fingers slipping on the girder, nearly letting it drop.   Yanking his reactions back under fierce control, he managed to retain his grasp on the beam and very gently lowered it back into its previous position.

 

Mercifully, Kirk's cries shuddered to choppy gasps almost immediately.

 

"Jim..." Spock's own voice was somewhat frayed around the edges. "I regret..." Lips thinned and flattened, and nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, seeking inner calm. "I did not wish to cause you distress. Have I exacerbated your injuries?"

 

Kirk drew a few more breaths, ragged gulps of air that sounded disturbingly close to sobs. "No, Spock," he finally managed in a weak whisper. "I'm... okay. Just... don't do that... again."

 

The dim lighting hid whatever expression might have slipped Spock's barriers, but the husky timbre of his words spoke plainly of his distress. "I assure you, I have no intention of... repeating my actions." He cleared his throat before continuing in a more clinical tone. "It would appear that the girder is being supported to some degree by the surrounding debris. When I attempted to move it, the shift in position increased the weight upon your lower body, intensifying the pain of you injuries. I conclude it would be injudicious to..."

 

"Spock..." Kirk interrupted with a wheeze, followed by a soft cough. "Enough..." James Kirk apparently knew the Vulcan well enough to recognize the running impersonal commentary for what it was, an exercise in smoke and mirrors. Spock was attempting to conceal a very un-Vulcanian emotional reaction behind a facade of analytical detachment. It was an old ruse, and one that Kirk generally responded to either with affection or exasperation, depending upon circumstances. At the moment, however, it seemed he found it more an annoyance. "It wasn't your fault... so kindly shut up."

 

"As you wish." Spock lapsed obediently into a silence, which from anyone else, might have been interpreted as a sulk. In Spock's case, he was simply responding to orders and taking the opportunity to reevaluate his options. The Vulcan realized he could not free Kirk from the under the girder, nor could he simply signal the Enterprise for a beam out. Even if he were able to locate his communicator somewhere in the debris, it would be ill-advised to move Jim without knowing the full extent of his injuries. As with his communicator, Spock's tricorder had also been buried under rock and dirt, leaving him unable to perform anything but the most rudimentary, visual assessment of Kirk's condition. For one of the few times in his life, Spock found himself wishing for the company of Doctor McCoy. The irony did not escape him. In fact, McCoy would likely apply one of his favorite Human idioms to this situation. Something about wishes being horses, Spock recalled. He was not fully aware of the origins of the saying, but he had heard McCoy use it often enough to discern the general meaning, and certainly, it would appear applicable to their current predicament.

 

However, the absence of McCoy and Spock’s tricorder aside, the science officer was not without resources. Like all members of Starfleet, Spock had extensive basic first aide training.   He might not be able to free Kirk from the rubble, or expedite his return to the Enterprise at this time, but he could deal with some of the Captain’s lacerations, and stabilize his fractured wrist. Swiftly Spock removed his outer uniform shirt, then the black undershirt, which he proceeded to tear into strips. Grimly, he began wrapping the worst of the wounds, trying to lessen the fluid loss and reduce the possibility of shock.

 

The tang of Human blood was strong in the enclosed space, the feel of it warm and slick, slightly tacky to the touch. _Fragile_ , Spock reflected, not for the first time. Human flesh, too freely torn. Human bones, so easily broken. Human blood carelessly spilled. A fragile species with no logical business exploring the dangerous frontiers of space. And yet, Human curiosity and willful perseverance would allow for nothing else.  

 

 _Fragile, foolish, headstrong_ … for a moment, Spock allowed a finger to brush against Kirk’s sweat dampened temple… the merest touch… _and precious_. _Infinitely precious._    Noting a slight tremor in his hand, Spock paused long enough to regain his equilibrium, then continued working swiftly, and as gently as possible. Consideration of any discomfort he might be causing was shunted aside as regrettable but unavoidable.

 

Kirk bore the process as stoically as possible, trying not to pull away, biting back on cries of pain, and burying his face in the dirt to muffle his soft whimpers. Still, the occasional moan managed to slip past his lips as Spock hands roved over his battered body, bringing additional torment.

 

Although Kirk was doing a commendable job of dampening the external signs of his distress, he could do little about his physiological and emotional suffering. Treating the Captain’s injuries required Spock to engage in physical touch, which heightened his telepathic senses. Mouth set, Spock strengthened his mental barriers against the onslaught of anguish rolling off his captain, but he could not block it entirely. He had long ago admitted the existence of a mental link between the two of them, a faint thread of awareness that joined their minds. Perhaps it was the result of the melds he had been forced to initiate with James Kirk during their years of service together. Perhaps it was merely the inevitable outcome of a close friendship between a telepath and a highly empathetic Human. Wherever the cause, the link was there, strongest in moments of mutual stress. The two of them had grown too close over their years of shared service for Spock to be able to totally disengage from Kirk’s psychic presence. And so he endured in silence.

 

Moment passed with only the sounds of tearing cloth and Kirk’s erratic breathing, punctuated by sporadic gasps of distress. The shadows seemed to creep closer, and the captain apparently decided he would prefer the comfort of Spock's voice to the eerie hush, regardless of what topic the Vulcan chose to expound upon.

 

"Spock," he began with a tight exhalation "I didn't mean… _'shut up'_ shut up..."

 

Spock was still translating this into something comprehensible and considering an appropriate response when Kirk continued.

 

"You weren’t entirely accurate... Mr. Spock. Slipping, are we?"

 

"Accurate, Captain? To what do you refer?" Spock sought clarification while busy pressing a scrap of his former science uniform against a seeping wound in Kirk’s upper arm. Holding it in place, he set about binding it with a strip of black cloth.

 

"Your estimate..." Kirk gasped, "... a collapse...within eight months..." A faint, rattling cough. "More like... eight minutes..."

 

Spock had been evaluating the cave's collapse in the hind part of his mind, analyzing information and weighing probabilities. Kirk's observation brought the matter to the fore and the Vulcan was unnerved by the surge of bitter anger that accompanied his thoughts on the subject. He kept his voice cautiously neutral as he replied, "I do not think you can draw conclusions concerning my accuracy under these circumstances, Captain. The cave in..."

 

"Wasn't… an accident."

 

There was no doubt in the voice, and Spock reflected that if words had physical form, the edges of Kirk's flat statement would have gleamed like razors.

 

"Negative." Spock replied, answering the unspoken question. He had reached a similar conclusion almost immediately upon hearing the detonation, and for an instant, he wondered if Kirk was picking up on his thoughts. However, as Spock ran a mental check of his mental shields he found them shaky, but intact.   Not leakage then, just Kirk's own uncanny intuition.

 

"The cave in was the result of an explosion." Even Vulcanian control could not prevent the shadows of affront that stained his words as he continued. "I suspect an explosive devise, designed to cause damage that could be interpreted as negligence on the part of Galaxco. However..." he gazed about at the debris faintly illuminated in the light of his helmet. "I doubt that our presence here was part of the plan."

 

"Rocas?"

 

"His erratic behavior immediately prior to the detonation certainly implicates him. If he did not plant the explosive device, he certainly was aware of it." Spock was working to support Kirk’s broken wrist with a brace fashioned from a shattered piece of glowbar casing and the straps to Kirk’s damaged hardhat.

 

"Yes. His behavior…" Kirk rasped, eyes drifting shut, "I… should have realized…"

 

"Captain," Spock said sharply, his mouth flattening in reproach. Then he drew a breath and continued in a softer tone. "Jim. We were both aware that Rocas's conduct was anomalous. However to extrapolate that his eccentric actions were indicative of a plot to sabotage the mining operations with a planted explosive device would have been illogical."

 

Kirk sighed, the deep breath receding into a weak cough. "I suppose so… but I can't help feel… I should have known…"

 

There was no answer for that. Captain Kirk had a highly developed sense of responsibility for those under his command. In Spock's opinion, the Human held himself to near impossible standards, and he did not easily forgive what he saw as personal lapses.

 

The Vulcan determined the redirection was the best way to deal with Kirk's bout of self-castigation. He leaned forward, bending over the prone figure of his captain. "You must conserve your strength. Our communicators are lost, and dyminiumite contains mineral properties that will undoubtedly disrupt attempts to locate us using ship sensors or tricorders."

 

Only Kirk's eyes moved in the gloom, settling on Spock's somber countenance. "You're saying we could… be here… for a while."

 

Narrow, dry lips pressed together in an expression Kirk read as extreme Vulcanian displeasure with the situation. "Indeed."

 

That brought a thin chuckle from Kirk. He did cherish his Vulcan, and never more than when he was being exquisitely Spock-like. "And what about further… collapse?" Kirk's gaze roamed their surroundings, taking in what he could see without moving his pain wracked body. " How stable… is… this shaft?"

 

Spock also inspected the cavity in which they were trapped. "Without my tricorder, I am unable to determine a precise answer to that question." He frowned as he observed the settling earth and precariously balanced rocks. "A visual inspection does indicate potential areas of structural weakness, however. I would recommend we refrain from disturbing the surrounding strata any further."

 

Kirk's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his fingers digging into the dirt under his hands as a grimace crossed his face. "So you… can't… dig us out."

 

Spock sounded apologetic as he confirmed in a rough voice, "It would be inadvisable."

 

A shaky breath. "So we wait… for the… cavalry."

 

Spock nodded, his fingers once again finding Kirk's in the dark. "We wait."

 

****

 

 

"What do you mean you can't go after them?" McCoy growled at Holland Carter while waving an expansive arm at the blocked mouth of the mining tunnel. "You know where they are! With all this mining equipment sitting around you're telling me you can't dig them out?"

 

In the background, miners scurried around setting portable force shield and temporary supports in place to help shore up the damaged mine.

 

"Doctor," Carter placated, his own gestures much more moderated, and in McCoy's opinion, as ineffective as his actions. "Please try to understand. The ground is unstable. Without knowing their exact location, any effort to 'dig them out' as you put it is likely to bring the whole tunnel down on them."

 

McCoy's blue eyes glared daggers from beneath fierce brows. "It looks like the whole damn tunnel already came down on them! Good God, man…" He reached out and snagged Carter by the upper arm, giving him a small shake, "They could be dying in there!"

 

Secretary Twong, her features pale and pinched beneath a layer of grime, placed a soothing hand on McCoy's forearm. "Doctor, I am sure everything is being done that can be done." A deep laceration on her forehead had been covered with a hastily applied dressing, and as she suddenly swayed on her feet, McCoy found himself grabbing her under the elbow to keep her upright.

 

“Mei-Lee, you don’t need to be here,” he pronounced in a much more congenial tone that used to address Carter. “That head injury needs to be monitored.”

 

Twong tried to protest. “I’m fine, Doctor. It’s just a bump, really. I think I should stay…”

 

Holland Carter’s eyes lit up, glad to find something which he could actually control. “Doctor McCoy is absolutely right, Miss Twong. It is not safe for you here, and you continued well being is my concern.” He gallantly waved down a passing miner, a Tellarite in stained coveralls. “You, there. Please escort Miss Twong out of the mine. See that she is kept safe.”

 

McCoy tried for reassurance as he handed the secretary over to the miner, ignoring her continued objections. “My people have a triage center set up at the entrance. If you don’t want to go back to the complex, you can wait there, but I would feel better if you are somewhere you can be looked after.” He tilted his head, employing his best country charm. “After all, Jim Kirk will have my head if I let anything happen to you.”

 

At this last, Twong finally relented, but not without a frustrated sigh. “Very well, Doctor. But please keep me informed. I will need comprehensive information in order to compose a thorough report for the Federation.”

 

Carter smiled brightly, full of the shiny, surface sincerity of “suits” the galaxy over. “Of course Miss Twong. We will make sure you have everything you need to make a complete report on events.”

 

As Twong was lead away by her Tellarite escort, Lara Hjelmfelt limped forward from where she had been consulting with some of her fellow miners. Her once bright coveralls were now ripped and stained, and one knee was wrapped in a hastily applied statis cast. "Right Carter is, McCoy about tunnel. Tunnel compromised be. Must careful be. Find location of Captain and Spock must we before dig."

 

McCoy thumped on the casing of his tricorder in frustration. "Well, I'm not getting anything on this, and the ship can't raise them. Our sensors can't read them through the static caused by the mineral deposits in these rocks, so we can’t beam them out. What do you suggest we do?"

 

“Have of Captain and Spock something with smell them?”

 

McCoy’s mouth pursed in confusion. “What?”

 

For the first time since the accident, Carter’s expression brightened with a glimmer of hope as he gazed at Hjelmfelt. “The uberwyrms?”

 

Hjelmfelt nodded. “Find them will they.”

 

McCoy was glancing back and forth between the two of them. “What are the uber-whatevers?”

 

“They are an indigenous life form to this planet, “explained Carter. “They live underground and can travel through dirt and rock. They can go anywhere in these mines.” His voice grew more excited as he began to formulate plans. “They have a highly developed sense of smell; they use it to hunt and find water. We’ve trained a few of them to work for us.” Grabbing McCoy by the shoulders, he asserted, “If we can get something from your missing men, something with their scent on it, we can send the uberwyrms out to find them.” He waved a hand at the collapsed mouth of the tunnel. “It’s certainly worth a try.

 

Foreman Rocas, who had been hovering on the periphery now darted forward. “So, we find them. What’s the point? They are probably dead anyway. No chance they could survive a collapse like that.” He addressed McCoy, his demeanor nervous but determined as he tentatively reached out and touched his arm. “You see? We all could have been killed. All of us. We told you these mines weren’t safe. We told Galaxco, but they wouldn’t listen. And now two good men are dead. Something has to be done! You see that, don’t you?”

 

“There’s no proof that anyone is dead!” snapped McCoy angrily. “You don’t know James Kirk. He has more lives than a passel of cats.” He turned to Lara Hjelmfelt, thrusting a finger in her direction. “You get those uber-critters ready and I’ll have the ship beam down something they can use to track the captain and Mister Spock.”

 

She gave a sharp nod of agreement. “Worry, do not, Doctor. Dead or not, we will return to you your captain and Spock.”

 

“I just as soon ‘not dead’ thank you,” huffed McCoy, glancing anxiously at the fallen wall of rock which blocked the entrance to the tunnel from which Kirk and Spock had failed to emerge.

 

****

 

Somewhere, water was dripping. Spock could hear it – a steady liquid cadence, far more steadfast and predictable than the frenetic, thready pulse fluttering under his fingers, or the irregular, shuddering breaths that sounded harshly in the darkness.

 

This was not good.

 

He shifted his touch, found a shoulder in the dim light. Squeezed gently. “Captain…”

 

“Sp…o…k.” Kirk sounded weak. Even without a tricorder, Spock could ascertain that the captain was fading. Spock had done all he could to treat those injuries he could see, but he suspected there was internal damage that required the facilities of Sickbay and Doctor McCoy’s version of ‘beads and rattles.’

 

And the pain was obviously getting worse. Kirk no longer tried to suppress the panting half-gasps tinged with misery - the groans and feeble spasms when something inside cramped and twisted. In the weak illumination from his helmet light, Spock could see Kirk’s cheeks were damp with the moisture of tears leaking from beneath tightly clenched lids. Another wave of agony hit, and Kirk convulsed under Spock’s touch, fingers clawing at the dirt, body thrashing as he tried to flee the searing scourge. A low groan, wrenched from deep inside, echoed off the walls of the collapsed mining shaft. “Ah…gods… Sp…ock!”

 

Recoiling slightly under the onslaught of Kirk’s emotional turmoil, Spock came to a decision. Not an easy one for him, but one that he deemed necessary under the circumstances. “Captain, the pain you are experiencing is diminishing your ability to endure the physical injuries your have sustained.” He paused for a moment, gathering his control. “With your permission, I can utilize Vulcanian mental techniques to help you establish some control over the unpleasant sensory input you are experiencing.”

 

Kirk drew a few faltering breaths before replying, “You can… stop the pain?”

 

“I can…” Spock considered his phrasing, seeking to be accurate, “…reduce the level of discomfort you are experiencing.”

 

Kirk started to reply, then broke off with a groan as another wave of torment swept through him. He gritted his teeth, and hissed, shaking with reaction. His fingers clawed again at the rocky soil, nails already crusted and torn from previous efforts to deflect the searing sensations racking his body.

 

In the face of his captain’s suffering, Spock’s grip on Kirk’s shoulder remained gentle and soothing. However, his other hand, resting upon on his own thigh, tightened into a taut-knuckled fist, nails cutting crescents into the flesh of his palm.

 

After agonizing moments that seemed to stretch beyond the temporal, Kirk recovered enough to wheeze, “Using… a… mind meld?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No… Spock.” Kirk took a few shallow gulps of air, gathering his strength, wanting to be clear. “I know how… disturbing melding is… for you… under the best of… circumstances.” A hint of shame shadowed his final words. “I have no wish… to subject you… to my current… mental state.”

 

A flash of amusement, totally illogical under the circumstances, kindled in the depths of Spock’s dark eyes. _Yes, foolish and precious, this beguiling one._ “Jim…” he countered, rich tones flattened to hide all hits of levity. “I assure you, the establishment of a meld would cause me much less… disquiet than continuing to watch you suffer without being able to offer assistance.”

 

Silence. Then a tentative, “That so?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

A soft sigh. _Relief?_    “Well… we can’t… have… that. Meld away, Mister Spock.”

 

Spock shifted closer, his slender fingers seeking and finding the appropriate contact points against Kirk’s feverish skin. His composed voice murmured somniferously in the dark. “Relax. Jim. I am here. Open your mind. Feel my thoughts. My mind to your mind. My thoughts are your thoughts...” His voice stumbled then broke for a moment, as the full force of Kirk’s pain slammed into him. Mental images formed out of the ether, pictures that sought to create reason out of emotion. Jim Kirk, naked, wrapped in razor wire, his vulnerable flesh torn open by the sharp, wicked barbs. On his knees, he struggled to break free… his body slick with blood.

 

Fighting past the horror, Spock reached, mental hands seeking to untangle the wire. Barbs sliced though his fingers, slashed his palms to the bone and green blood flowed to mix with red. “Feel me with you,” he intoned, setting himself against the illusory pain in his mind. “We are one. Release the pain. Release.” Even as he pulled the barbed wire away from Kirk, the images shifted. Chains erupted from the stone floor, twisted tendons of raw flesh and bone that entwined themselves around Kirk, bearing him to the floor. He cried out, thrashing in their grip. Resolute, Spock ventured onward, fingers ripping at the living bindings. “Feel me with you,” he gritted, as he pulled chunks of dripping flesh and splintered bone away from his captain. “We are one. Release the pain. Release.” He reached the phantom Kirk, cradled the tawny head firmly between his hands. “Let your body float free!” he demanded, staring into tormented eyes. “There is no more pain.”

 

The dazed golden gaze met his own, cleared slightly. Pale lips moved, soundlessly, but Spock read the unspoken words, _“No pain?”_

 

“No pain,” he repeated. “Let go, Jim.”

 

And under his hands, Kirk’s whole being sighed. His eyes fluttered closed. Together they sank into sunlight.

 

*****

 

Mouth pursed in slight distaste, McCoy eyed the two uberwyrms undulating across the floor of the mine shaft. When he’d heard the term “worm” he’d pictured something like an earthworm; slender, grayish-pink and moist, but these colossal creatures were thick-bodied, prickly and dry to the touch. At least they looked dry to the touch. He hadn’t actually worked up the nerve to find out, especially after being told they could secrete acid from their quills. They were close to four meters long and over a meter in diameter, and as far as he could tell, they had no discernable eyes, noses, or ears, just a large maw lined with rows and rows of sharp spikes that might be considered teeth. They were, he decided, quite disgusting. But he was willing to overlook their lack of charm, if they could help locate Jim and Spock.

 

Hjelmfelt and Rocas were crouched beside pair of the beasts, Hjelmfelt awkwardly trying to balance with her immobilized knee thrust out to the side.   The two were busily fitting the uberwyrms with specially designed wireless-relay harnesses, which would feed signals back to monitors being set up to process the information. Apparently, this was a common practice for the wyrms did not seem the least bit perturbed by the equipment collars being slung around their blunt… front ends?

 

Holland Carter leaned in, grabbing McCoy’s elbow in excitement. “You see? It’s ingenious really. The wyrms burrow through the dirt and rock, and we monitor their progress on the computers. We generally use them to locate mineral deposits, but there is no reason they can’t help find your missing crew members.”

 

McCoy studied the creatures with a skeptical eyebrow at full-staff. “How do you get them to do what you want?”

 

“Simple reward training, Doctor. They use a scent pattern we establish to track down the necessary minerals, and they get a reward.”

 

“I see,” McCoy watched with some bemusement as Hjelmfelt reached out and scratched one of the uberwyrms around the folded ridges of skin set behind its mouth – or what he assumed was a mouth. The fact that Hjelmfelt was wearing heavy, protective gloves did not make the show of apparent affection any less remarkable. “Positively reinforced operant conditioning. What’s the reward?”

 

“Atakatite,” Carter enthused. “It is a by-product of our dyminiumite processing. Useless to us but apparently very tasty to the uberwyrms. They love it! It is a perfect partnership, Doctor.” He clapped McCoy on the back, hard. “I wish I could take credit for discovering the usefulness of the wyrms, but to be honest, I just considered them a nuisance until Lara and her team figured out how to utilize their abilities. As a result, productivity has increased almost 30 percent!”

 

McCoy couldn’t quite dredge up the same level of zeal Carter seemed to have for the critters, but he did offer a heartfelt, “Well, if they can find the Captain and Mister Spock, I will personally pin a ribbon of valor to their…” He paused and harrumphed, gesturing vaguely towards the pair, unsure wear one would pin anything on their tough, bristly exteriors.

 

Hjelmfelt lopsidedly lumbered in their direction as she favored her injured knee. “We ready are. Have items with to smell, Doctor?”

 

McCoy nodded, and unwrapped the parcel he had arranged to have beamed down. Fleet uniforms were synthesized aboard ship, using current crew measurements and department affiliations. Most of the clothing was recycled at the end of the work period, though Kirk had been known to go through multiple uniforms in a shift. Still, because they were re-manufactured frequently, a uniform was not useful to establish a scent marker. However, most crew members also had a few personal items that were laundered in an old fashioned manner as needed, and returned to the rightful owners. McCoy had instructed Kirk’s current yeoman, an Ensign Walsh, to hunt down such items for both the captain and the first officer.  His bundle contained a worn pair of jeans and a heavy cable-knit sweater that McCoy had seen Kirk wear occasionally while on shore leave. For Spock, Walsh had chosen a meditation robe in a sensuous black fabric that for a Vulcan seemed practically decadent, and McCoy fervently hoped he would have the opportunity to tease the austere Mister Spock about it. He handed them both to Hjelmfelt. “See if these will work.”

 

She shook the clothing out and grunted, giving the items a quick once over. Deciding they might fulfill the requirements, she carried them over to the uberwyrms and held them out to the creatures all the while cooing in the high-pitched babble-speak that seemed universal when addressing small children and adorable life forms, though McCoy could see nothing remotely adorable about the uberwyrms.

 

He muttered to himself while once again assessing the items in his medical kit. It was the third time he’d checked his supplies, and nothing had changed, but it gave him something to do. “How long do you think this could take?” he grumbled at the Galaxcon CEO. “Every minute they remain trapped means less chance of survival.”

 

Carter shook his head, looking genuinely regretful. “I really don’t know, Doctor. I assure you, we are doing everything we can to expedite the recovery of your personnel, but I really just don’t know.”

 

And that was the real problem, McCoy lamented. They didn’t know _anything_. How much air did Kirk and Spock have left? How much time? What types of injuries might they have sustained? How were they going to get them out? And were they even alive? They didn’t know _anything_ , and so they had to be prepared for _everything_.

 

McCoy completed the recheck of his medical equipment, and contacted sickbay on his communicator confirming that they were set up for all possible contingencies. Head nurse, Christine Chapel, assured him (for the third time) that they were standing by, prepared for everything short of a supernova. And he knew they were.   He had a good team, perhaps the best in Starfleet. But even the unrivaled Enterprise sickbay could do nothing without a patient, and so they waited - something McCoy had never found easy to do.

 

****

 

Spock had never been to Iowa where James Kirk had spent much of his childhood. It was a place Kirk spoke of on occasion, sometimes with wistful nostalgia, and at other times with the relief of someone who’d escaped some monotonous drudgery. More than once, he had threatened to drag Spock there on the next Earth based shore leave. Spock had always secretly anticipated the opportunity to visit, to see for himself the place that provoked such confused reactions in his captain, but the chance had never arisen. Always one more mission, one more destination. No time.

 

However, Spock was fairly certain that it was Iowa he was experiencing now, or at least the version of Iowa that existed within the confines of his friend’s mind.   He and Jim Kirk were curled in a large, white rocking chair on the porch of a somewhat timeworn farmhouse. The house was painted in a cheery yellow, but the paint on both the house and rocking chair was beginning to peel, revealing grey, weathered wood beneath. They were facing acres of golden, oat fields that shifted in the breeze, rippling as though alive under the blazing light of Sol. The Earth sky was a brilliant, endless azure; a cool, gemlike color that never ceased to surprise Spock, being used to, as he was, the changeable Vulcanian skies of saffron, dun, and brown. Spock was holding Kirk on his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around the Human. It was a liberty he would not have taken outside the meld, and indeed demonstrated a level of physical intimacy he likely would find exceedingly uncomfortable. However, here, he had chosen to allow Kirk’s mind to set the parameters. Apparently, in his present state of distress, this close touching was something Kirk craved. And Spock would hardly deny his captain anything he desired at the moment, for outside this place and time, James Kirk was dying, and Spock knew it.

 

Kirk’s head lolled restlessly against Spock’s shoulder. His breathing was labored, his skin pale, almost translucent - mental reflections of his weakening state. Sometimes, his weight bore down on Spock, melting against him, a demanding burden of flesh and bone and need; at other times, he seemed to fade, slipping towards insubstantial, his form bleeding away even as Spock tightened his grip, struggling to hold on, crying out, “Jim! Don’t go! Stay with me!”

 

Their surroundings occasionally flickered and drifted out of phase, jumbled images transposing themselves over each other, sensations clashing… leaving them momentary disarranged. The sun would flare and white out the world and for an eternity all would be burning light and flaring pain. Then with a stutter, or a sickening lurch, the world would resolve itself again, and they would be back on the porch of Kirk’s childhood. These episodes of displacement were becoming more frequent as Kirk slowly lost control of his mental faculties. Increasingly, it was Spock’s own mind that was holding their ephemeral realm steady, recreating the memories he’d found in Kirk’s past.

 

Already, they were past the point at which Vulcanian healers would have advised Spock to pull free of the meld to avoid the risk of being pulled into death along with Kirk. But he would not leave. Could not leave. It was now his breathing that filled Kirk’s lungs. His heartbeat that pumped Kirk’s blood. His will that held Kirk back from final darkness. To go would certainly condemn Jim Kirk to death, and that was unacceptable.

 

No, he would not leave his friend and captain to die alone here, even at the risk of his own life.

 

****

 

Lara Hjelmfelt had named the larger of the two uberwyrms, Commander D’Shen Twall, after her favorite character from “Space Adventurers,” a childhood entertainment televid. Its mate, the smaller of the wyrms, she called Ishina, after Commander Twall’s avian pet cupock-te. When Lara had been nine, the televid had been cancelled following the discovery that the show’s main star had been helping fund an Orion smuggling operation. Lara, too young to understand the controversy at the time, had been deeply disappointed. As an adult, she still loved the old episodes and kept a copy of them on disk. She had long ago concluded that people could let you down, even televid stars could end up being slave traders, but galactic heroes on entertainment vids rarely disappointed.

 

As for the uberwyrm, it had no opinion on the matter one way or the other. The name meant nothing to it. It contained a sense of “self” but needed no label to distinguish itself from “others.”   It merely was, and they were not.

 

Now it stopped and tested the rocky soil close around it, sampling a portion. It sensed… yes. In the small pockets of air between the soil particles. The trace scent.

 

Grinding together the hard, boney plates set in its jaw the uberwyrm sent out an ultrasonic message to others of its kind, including its mate.

 

Information: Target. Action: Found. Location: Here.

 

From somewhere not too distant came a thrumming reply.

 

Query: Where.

 

Location: Here.

 

The uberwyrm sent its communications again, then began tunneling downward, toward the open cavern it sensed below. Towards the target.

 

*****

 

“McCoy!” Holland Carter yelled loudly, and slapped Lara Hjelmfelt on the back as she monitored the incoming data from the uberwyrm uplink. “We’ve got them!” He turned to the doctor with a triumphant grin.

 

McCoy hurried over from where he’d been peering over Del Rocas’s shoulder while he tracked the second uberwyrm. “You found them? Let me see!”

 

Hjelmfelt shifted her broad shoulders slightly to one side, so McCoy could see the screen. “Twall them located has.” She pointed to some read-outs scrolling down the side of the monitor. “Coordinates here are.”

 

McCoy frowned at the vid images on the screen. The main feed showed grainy footage of two faintly lit figures, but they appeared to be off center and canted. McCoy couldn’t quite make heads or tails of what he was seeing until Hjelmfelt adjusted something, reorienting the image. Apparently, the live transmission from the uberwyrms was not horizontal. Once the image settled into something more recognized, McCoy realized one figure was crouched beside the other, someone lying prone and difficult to see amid the rubble. He was somewhat surprised he could see anything at all, but an intact hardhat illum-panel was providing a minimal amount of lighting. Both figures were far too still for his liking, and he bent closer, seeking movement or other signs of life. He took some solace in the infrared-image in one corner of the screen. It showed two glowing thermal signatures, and where there was heat, there might still be life. The crouching figure was most likely Spock he concluded, based upon the flaring yellows and whites indicating a higher body temperature. Unless Kirk was running a very high fever. Either way, the figure belly-down on the ground had him very worried. Too many pools of blue and green, indicating a dangerous lowering of body temperature for a Human, possibly fatal levels for a Vulcan. He refused to entertain the thought that the second figure might already be dead, and what he was seeing was just the natural cooling process.

 

“We have to get to them!” he snapped. “You said you had the coordinates. Let me beam in there!”

 

“As soon as we get coordinates from the second uberwyrm,” Carter soothed, “That way we can triangulate the location precisely. If we are wrong, Doctor, you could end up beaming into solid rock.”

 

“Well, how long is _that_ going to take?”

 

“Data from Ishina arriving now are,” intoned Hjelmfelt calmly, as she correlated incoming data on her monitor. “Coordinates for beaming have… now!” She indicated the read-out on her screen, and McCoy whipped out his communicator. Contacting the ship, he read out the indicated beaming location to Scotty. “Get me in there fast, Scotty,” he demanded, voice gruff with worry.

 

“Can’na we just beam them out?” Commander Scott’s voice sounding small and tinny over the communication device.

 

“I don’t want to risk moving them till I know what I’m dealing with.” McCoy gripped his medi-kit close, as though concerned he might lose hold of it during the beaming process. “Give me a minute to get in there and assess the situation. And stand by to beam down any medical equipment I might need.”

 

He had time to offer one little prayer that Lara Hjelmfelt and her uberwyrms were accurate before the transporters whisked him away. If they weren’t, he supposed he’d never know.

 

****

 

McCoy materialized in close darkness, with a sense of the earth pressing menacingly down from above. The first thing he noticed was the thick, stale quality of the air. He tried drawing a deeper breath, but the heavy dust sent him into a fit of coughing. He cursed himself for an idiot. Of course the air would be stagnant. Jim and Spock had been trapped in this confined, unventilated space long enough to deplete the oxygen. He unhooked his communicator, and made his first request – three breather masks. The idea that he might not need all three was quickly shoved to the back of his mind.  

 

Masks in hand, he began crawling towards the still, shadowy figures a short distance away. “Spock,” he rasped, as he drew abreast the two, for he could now see it was indeed the Vulcan bending over the decumbent form of James Kirk. However, Spock did not react to McCoy’s presence. Noting the placement of Spock’s fingers along particular facial pressure points of his injured companion and the look of intense concentration upon the Vulcan’s long features, McCoy concluded that the science officer was deeply immersed in some sort of mind trance with the captain. Swiftly, he donned his own breather, then positioned masks on both Spock and Kirk. As he gently slipped the mask over Kirk’s mouth and nose, he was relieved to note the clear plasti-form fogging with breath. Alive then, both of them. The tricorder confirmed it, but also informed him that, in Jim’s case, that status was precarious at best.

 

Working quickly, he rummaged through his medi-kit and administered a concoction of drugs to counteract the most critical of Kirk’s symptoms. He had to get the man on a surgical table stat. It appeared the captain was partially trapped under rubble from the collapsed mine, and McCoy had no way of completely assessing the severity of his hidden injuries. However, the tricorder was quite forthcoming about the broken bones and internal bleeding. There was little choice. They certainly couldn’t take the time to dig Kirk free, not with the unstable readings McCoy was getting on his tricorder. They would just have to beam him out and deal with the consequences as they arose.

 

Spock appeared to be holding his own, though the Vulcan’s functions appeared dangerously low. With a quirked eyebrow, McCoy noted Spock’s shallow breathing and slow heartbeat seemed perfectly matched to that of Kirk. Most peculiar. Even their brain wave patterns were in near sync. Whatever was going on, McCoy was reluctant to disrupt it. He might not know a great deal about Vulcanian mind fusion techniques, but he had the distinct impression that, at the moment, Spock was literally keeping Jim Kirk alive. Separating them might prove fatal for Jim.

 

Contacting the ship again, he request three to beam up, “And Scotty,” he added, glancing worriedly at the Vulcan. “Spock is in some kind of meld with the captain. I think he’s in pretty deep. Try to beam them up together, I don’t want to break that contact till I have Jim stabilized on board.”

 

“Aye. Will do,” came Mister Scott’s reassuring reply. “Medical teams are standing by, Doctor. We’ll have you all aboard in no time a’tall.”

 

“Lord willing, and if the creek don’t rise,” McCoy was muttering under his breath even as the dancing lights of the transporter effect coalesced around him.

 

****

 

For McCoy and his team, the next twenty-four hours were the stuff of nightmares, ones that, McCoy had no doubt, would feature prominently in his imagination for many nights to come. Beaming Kirk free of the debris had revealed the full extent of his injuries, and a pretty sight it was not. McCoy was used to putting Kirk back together after one mishap or another, but sometimes the trauma was worse than others. This was one of those times. James T. Kirk was respected by his crew as an exceptional commanding officer, but he was also well liked as a person, and although his staff conducted themselves with complete professionalism, McCoy saw more than one suspiciously moist eye.

 

His own control was tenuous at best and not for the first time, he questioned whether he should be serving on the Enterprise. Nothing quite like being up to your elbows in a friend’s blood, literally holding his life in your hands while his vitals plummeted time and time again, to remind you there were good reasons most doctors refrained from treating those close to them. But who else in Starfleet would he trust with Jim Kirk’s health? And if there was anyone else who knew as much about Spock’s crazy hybrid physiology as he did, he hadn’t heard about it.

 

They got Kirk stabilized and prepped for surgery before McCoy even considered trying to pull Spock free of the meld. He expected breaking the mental connection between the two might prove difficult, and wasn’t surprised that took a trio of well muscled medical techs to wrestle Spock away from Kirk’s side. He was, however, somewhat shocked when Spock actually started to growl, lips pulled back in a primal snarl. While the tech’s struggled to hold onto the flailing Vulcan, McCoy delivered a series of sharp slaps, trying to snap Spock out of the meld. His efforts proved unsuccessful, and when Spock threw one of the medical into a wall with enough strength to knock the man unconscious, McCoy resorted to a sedative. He darted in with the hypo, and Spock folded, going limp in the remaining techs’ hold.

 

A mistake in retrospect.

 

They had foreseen that the severing of the meld would have a detrimental effect on Kirk, and were ready when nearly every monitor on his bio-bed erupted in a cacophony of alarms. What they hadn’t prepared for was the complete shutdown of Spock’s functions. When placed on a second bio-bed, it became apparent that the Vulcan had no pulse or respiration. To a layman, the next few minutes might have appeared to be total pandemonium, but McCoy’s people knew their jobs.   Although things got a bit chaotic, they had the injured medical tech situated, Spock hooked up to life sustaining equipment, and Kirk into surgery with record efficiency.

 

After that, it was hours of touch and go emergency medicine… dealing with one crisis situation after another as medical personnel scrambled to keep both Kirk and Spock alive. McCoy didn’t understand why, but somehow the captain and first officer’s well being had become inexorably linked. Every time they came close to losing Jim, Spock’s vitals fluttered and sank into the danger zone. McCoy quickly realized he was fighting to save, not only Jim Kirk, but the Vulcan as well.

 

“Spock, what the hell have you done this time,” he muttered under his breath as Kirk’s readings took another dip, and the clamoring alarms on his monitor were echoed by those on Spock’s bio-bed in the next treatment room. If he managed to pull them both through this, he reflected, he definitely deserved to pop open that bottle of Romulan Ale he’d been storing for a special occasion. And if he didn’t save them… well, he’d probably be opening the bottle anyway, for entirely different reasons.

 

*****

 

Hours later found an exhausted McCoy in his office, head pillowed on his arms, snoozing – an open bottle of Romulan Ale and a half empty glass sat on his desk. Nurse Christine Chapel slipped in, a PADD with the latest readings on both the captain and Mister Spock cradled in her hands.

 

“Len?” Her voice was rough with fatigue, her long face drawn, her blue eyes bruised, and her usually tidy blonde coiffure hanging limp.

 

She stepped closer to McCoy with the intention of shaking him by the shoulder, but stopped, knowing he was even more spent than she. Instead, she quietly set the PADD on his desk and turned to go. At the door, she paused again and glanced over her shoulder. With the swift movements that bespoke an impulsive decision, she reached out, snatched the tumbler off the desk, and tossed the rest of the ale down her throat. With a wry smirk, she turned the glass rim down and left it sitting on the desk next to the PADD.

 

*****

 

McCoy sometimes wondered if the person who first proposed that Vulcans could not lie had actually met any Vulcans. They certainly hadn’t met Mister Spock. McCoy had developed a fairly accurate shit-detector, and he knew he was being bamboozled.

 

“Don’t tell me it isn’t relevant, Spock! You nearly died. Several times. And I want to know why!” He faced off with the Vulcan across the bio-bed where Spock was slipping his long limbs into a clean uniform. “Your injuries weren’t that serious. A few lacerations. Some hypoxia. You should have been fine.”

 

“I am fine, Doctor,” Spock replied in an infuriatingly calm voice as he tugged the hem of his blue velour outer shirt into place. “As you can see.”

 

“Spock!” McCoy roared and across Sickbay a newly assigned medical technologist jumped in surprise, dropping the charts she was carrying. “You are not leaving my Sickbay until I get some straight answers!”

 

Spock turned and studied McCoy with impassively. “Doctor, with the captain incapacitated, I am currently in command. As I have already informed you, the explosion in the mines at Galaxcon One was not an accident. I must meet with Secretary Twong and Mister Carter to discuss the situation as soon as is expedient.”

 

McCoy slammed his hand down on the side of the bio-bed, “Well, it isn’t expedient, Mister Spock. As CMO of the Enterprise, I can have you back in this bed so fast it will take a week for your pointy-eared logic to catch up with you!”

 

Bland reproach. “Really, Doctor.”

 

“Don’t you ‘really doctor’ me you overgrown elf!” McCoy snapped. “When it comes to the health of this crew, my word is law, and you know it!” He shook a warning finger. “I mean it. I’ll quote the rule book, chapter and verse, and have your ass in a sling.”

 

Spock’s lips compressed into a thin line, the only indication that he was affected by McCoy’s threats.

 

McCoy subsided a modicum, trying for a different tack. “Look Spock. My people wore themselves to the quick keeping you alive. Jim is still critical, and you want to go running off to confront someone who tried to kill both of you? And I am supposed to just ignore the fact that your body systems kept shutting down without any medical reason I can ascertain?” He spread his hands in frustration. “Dammit man, give me something!” Lowering his voice to a more intimate level, he admitted, “I’m worried about you, you stubborn hobgoblin!”

 

Spock considered this, one eyebrow quirking. “I assure you, I am not in any danger of a relapse. Your own instrumentation determined I am fully recovered.”

 

McCoy’s expression grew shrewd. “Recovered from what? What was wrong with you? It had something to do with Jim, didn’t it? Somehow you two were linked.”

 

Spock stiffened and swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as his gaze sliding to a spot over McCoy shoulder.

 

 _Gotcha!_ McCoy crowed silently, leaning closer. “What was it Spock. I’ve never seen a meld work like that. I’ve never even heard of it, and I’ve did some pretty extensive research on Vulcanian mind techniques after the first time you linked with Van Gelder.”

 

Spock’s brown eyes flickered to McCoy’s face, and there was something glacial and bleak lurking behind them. “I do not know.”

 

That raised eyebrows, literally. “You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?”

 

“I…” Spock shifted his stance, looking not unlike a child caught with a hand in the proverbial cookie jar. “I have never experienced anything comparable. It was far deeper than any meld I have established before. I believe I may have compromised the captain’s mental integrity.”

 

“His mental integrity?”

 

“The captain was dying. I took control of his mind. To do so… it is considered a violation among my people.” Spock swallowed heavily again, and his gaze dropped to the floor. “I did not feel I had a choice. If I hadn’t… Jim would be dead.”

 

“Well, you’re not going to get any complaints from me,” McCoy granted kindly. “Or from Jim, I imagine. But are you okay?”

 

“I am… undamaged.”

 

“And Jim?”

 

Spock looked up once again, glancing towards the doorway to the room where Jim Kirk lay. The desolation in the Vulcan’s eyes had spread to stain his whole countenance, and his voice sounded harsh as he conceded, “That, I do not know…”   McCoy caught the slight tremble that swept through the Vulcan’s slender frame as he continued, “I have reason to suspect there may be serious repercussions to my actions.”

 

That started McCoy and raised unwelcome concerns. “What kind of repercussions?”

 

“That I cannot determine at this time.” With that, the inscrutable mask was firmly back in place. “And now, Doctor, it would be most propitious to the efficient operation of this ship and to the successful conclusion of our current mission should you agree to release me from Sickbay.”

 

Judging from the sour purse of his mouth, McCoy didn’t think much of their ‘current mission’. “Well then,” he groused waving a hand at Spock as though he were a noisome fly. “Go on then, get out of here. But if you experience anything out of the ordinary, you high tail it back up here. I didn’t spend all that time fighting to keep you breathing just to have you drop dead because you’re too stubborn to admit you aren’t indestructible.”

 

“Understood.” Turning smartly on his heels, the lanky first officer of the Enterprise strode swiftly out of Sickbay.

 

*****

 

“So Rocas confessed to setting the explosives in the mine?”

 

Leaning with calculated nonchalance in the doorway, McCoy watched with a critical eye as James Kirk discussed the current situation on Ruel with his first officer. Propped up in his bio-bed, the captain was pallid, his movements leaden and cautious, but the exchange with Spock had him far more animated than McCoy had seen in the last few days.

 

“Yes,” Spock continued his recitation. “It was his intention to use the resulting collapse of the mine to force the Federation to give credence to the miner’s complaints and side with them in the dispute against the Galaxco Corporation.”

 

“And Galaxco’s stance on the matter?”

 

“Holland Carter attempted to use Rocas’s actions to suggest that the miner’s complaints were invalid, solely the result on an ongoing campaign of sabotage meant to discredit the facility. He suggested the miners intended to extract needless concessions from the corporation in the form of unnecessary and expensive new safety measures and perhaps higher wages.”

 

“But he didn’t count on Secretary Twong.”

 

A beat… Then, “People have been known to… underestimate the secretary.” The delivery was perfectly dry, deadpan Vulcanian, but that didn’t keep McCoy from recognizing a slap on the wrist when he heard one.

 

And apparently, Kirk did as well, judging from the resulting wince. “Touché, Mister Spock.” A faint, embarrassed grin to show no offence taken.

 

“She has agreed to remain on Ruel to continue functioning as mediator between Galaxco and the mine workers.”

 

Kirk considered that. “I take it she is not willing to simply dismiss the miner’s concerns?”

 

“Negative. In fact, her findings indicate an ongoing pattern of safety issues being ignored and dismissed at Galaxcon One. There is further evidence that budgetary funds earmarked for safety upgrades have been redirected into other categories, including some rather questionable ‘personal items’ for Mister Carter. I believe there was some discussion of an office suite fashioned of hand carved of saphor wood set with moonglow stones, and the purchase of an original Picasso for decorative purposes.”

 

Kirk whistled long and low. “Ouch. I suspect Mister Holland may soon be in search of a new job.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

Then Kirk hitched forward just a fraction, not enough to tax his healing body, but definitely conveying heightened interest. “Now tell me again… that part when you confronted Rocas. You presented your deductions and then?”

 

McCoy noted with satisfaction the twinkle in Kirk’s eyes and the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

Seated at the captain’s bedside, Spock steepled his fingers and began to reiterate key events with the same dispassionate voice he would employ while enumerating the value of Pi, but McCoy was not fooled. He was well aware that the Vulcan’s account elucidated and embellished upon those events that had initially sparked amusement in the captain.

 

“Faced with the overwhelming evidence against him, Foreman Rocas attempted to flee. He took possession of a weapon from the security guard and seized Lara Hjelmfelt, presumably in an attempted to use her as a hostage.”

 

Kirk’s smile grew wider, “And she…?”

 

“Ms. Hjelmfelt took exception to being taken captive. Mister Rocas was apparently unaware that Miss Hjelmfelt has extensive training in judo.”

 

An open grin now. “Apparently. Go on.”

 

“She disarmed him using the Kodokan Goshin Jutsu forms of self-defense, breaking his wrist in the process. She then grasped him by the testicles and rendered him…” a slight pause, one that could be dismissed as unintentional, if you didn’t know better “…impotent.”

 

McCoy knew better. While Kirk snickered wickedly, McCoy rolled his eyes and reflected that it was likely the same clueless experts who claimed Vulcan’s couldn’t lie who also said they had no sense of humor.

 

“Well, Mister Spock,” Kirk chortled. “I’d say Ms. Hjelmfelt had the situation… well in hand, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

The laughter dissolved into a fit of coughing and McCoy moved in. He was a firm believer in the curative aspects of a good laugh, but not when one is recovering from lung damage. “All right you two. No more of that. You’re corrupting my nurses.” He placed a hand gently on Kirk’s shoulder. “Easy, Jim. Stop talking now. Keep your breathing shallow if you can. You want something for the pain?”

 

Kirk waved a dismissive hand, face flushing red as he tried to keep from coughing. “Mister Spock,” McCoy grumbled as he poured Kirk a glass of water. “You’re agitating my patient. Give me a good reason I shouldn’t toss you out by your pointy ears.”

 

“Doctor,” Spock responded with a touch of indignity. “I assure you, I was merely delivering my report as requested by the captain. It is my duty as first officer to make sure the captain is informed of all…”

 

McCoy held up a hand to forestall further grandiloquence on the part of the Vulcan. “Spare me.”

 

Spock paused, then seemed to skip ahead to another point in his lecture. “However, I believe I have fulfilled my obligations in that area.” Rising from his chair, he adopted a formal stance, with hands tucked behind his back. “The captain does appear somewhat fatigued.”

 

Kirk’s eyes went wide and somewhat frantic. Shaking his head, he opened his mouth to offer some retort, but was silenced by a sharp look from McCoy.

 

“Captain, if you will excuse me.” Offering both Kirk and the doctor a decorous nod, Spock turned and exited the room.

 

Kirk visibly slumped in the bio-bed, mouth set in what could not be mistaken for anything but a pout.

 

McCoy gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. “Jim, I know you hate being cooped up like this, but the more you rest the sooner you will heal and the sooner I can release you.”

 

Kirk shot him a dark look, and McCoy drew back. “I heard that!”

 

****

 

McCoy found Spock waiting for him outside his office.   He graced the Vulcan with a friendly smile and nodded back towards the room where Kirk was recovering. “You did good in there. Just what the doctor ordered.”

 

As expected, Spock cocked his head in affected innocence. “I do not know to what you are referring. I was simply keeping the captain updated on relevant events.”

 

“Sure you were.” McCoy’s indulgent smile said he didn’t believe a word of it, but would allow Spock the chicanery. He gestured towards his office. “Come on in. I doubt you’re hanging around here just to pass the time of day.”

 

Spock followed him into the small space. “I would like to inquire as to the captain’s condition.”

 

This brought a look of slight surprise. “I know you’ve been reading my medical log. You’ve flagged the updates to be sent directly to your terminal.”

 

“The log does indeed provide me with sufficient factual information concerning the captain’s current fitness. However, I had hoped for a more… intuitive assessment.”

 

McCoy broke into a broad grin, “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit! Are you asking for an _emotional_ evaluation, Spock?”

 

A flicker of consternation disturbed the usual unflappable stoicism. “You have shown yourself to be uniquely… perceptive when it comes to the health of your patients, Doctor. I would value your professional opinion.”

 

McCoy rocked on his heels, enjoying himself immensely. “Why, Mister Spock. I do believe I detected a compliment somewhere in there.” Then taking pity on the discomfited first officer, he dropped into his chair and shifted to professional mode. “Well, you know as well as I do, that reigning in a sick Jim Kirk is a bit like corralling a wet cat. He’s mobility is still compromised, and he’s doesn’t like that. He’s in pain and won’t admit it. His energy levels are low, so he pushes himself too hard and ends up even more exhausted. He’s irritable, annoyed, bored and depressed and he’s driving my nursing staff to distraction.” He cocked an eyebrow at Spock. “About the usual, I’d say.”

 

Spock tugged at his lower lip with his teeth, a near imperceptible nuance that set off McCoy’s inner alarm system. “What is it, Spock? Has he said something to you?” It bothered him that Kirk might have mentioned some symptom to Spock that he had kept from his own doctor, but the captain and the Vulcan were quite close.

 

“No, Doctor. The captain himself is unaware of the situation. However, there are certain… circumstances about which you should be informed as they could have a bearing upon the captain’s full recovery.”

 

That was even more worrisome. Had McCoy and his staff missed some important change in the captain’s condition? “What circumstances?”

 

“You will recall I mentioned the possibility that my actions on Ruel might have compromised the captain’s mental coherence.”

 

A very nasty feeling began stirring in McCoy’s gut. “Yes. I remember, but you hadn’t mentioned it again. I thought…”

 

“I could not be certain until the captain had recovered sufficiently for me to make a more thorough evaluation. But it appears my initial concerns were justified. In establishing a meld of the depth and intensity of the one I performed to insure his survival, I have inadvertently produced a mental resonance within the captain’s mind. I have, in essence, modified his brain wave signature.”

 

McCoy found himself leaning forward, hands tightening around the edges of his desk. “Are you saying you’ve somehow altered his BCP?”

 

Judging from his rigid expression, Spock didn’t seem to like the implications anymore than McCoy. “Conducting a current hyper-encephalogram would certainly explicate matters, but I believe so, Doctor.”

 

“That’s impossible, Spock!”

 

“Not impossible. You will recall the events involving Lieutenant Romaine and the survivors of Zetar.”

 

“But they were trying to take over her mind! Are you saying you’ve taken control of Jim Kirk’s mind?”

 

Spock frowned and considered for a moment. “Not precisely.” His brows drew together in chagrin. “I find it difficult to convey the particulars of the situation accurately to someone who has no experiential knowledge of the mental arts.” He crossed his arms, and continued. “I currently have no command of his thoughts or actions. However, during the crisis on Ruel, I was, for a period of time, essentially in authority over both his mind and his body. Apparently, that prolonged, close mental contact continues to reverberate within the captain’s mind, intensifying his telepathic… _voice_ , if you will.”

 

McCoy shook his head, perplexed. “Telepathic voice? But Jim isn’t telepathic. His telepathic aptitude scores are within the average range, no more.”

 

“Not telepathic, no. But the Captain does rate high in empathic potential, insight, and intuition, indicative of stronger than average parapsychological skills.” A slight cock of the head conveyed a touch of irony. “I trust you do not need to have melded with the captain to agree with me that he has a very dynamic mind, and presently that mind is broadcasting rather loudly.”

 

“So what are you saying, Spock? Is Jim Kirk compromised? Do I declare him unfit for command?”

 

“I doubt that will be necessary. Essentially, there should be no effect on the captain’s behavior. His… condition, if you will, is imperceptible to anyone without telepathic abilities. I am, of course, aware of the situation, but I am also able to shield my mind and so it is of no particular consequence to me either.”

 

McCoy tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. “Well, I guess that explains Paul Fenje.”

 

It was Spock's turn to look perplexed. “Who?”

 

“Fenje, one of my medical techs, and generally very efficient, but lately he’s turned into a walking disaster area. Distracted, dropping things, forgetting his duties and highly agitated. Very unlike him. He’s generally a very mind mannered fellow. I finally had to rotate him down to the med-lab just to get him out from underfoot.” He snapped his fingers, “And do you know? It seemed to be worse when he was on nursing shift with Jim!”

 

Spock’s eyebrows climbed. “I speculate that if you check Mister Fenje’s records, you will find he has a high rating for telepathic abilities.”

 

“I don’t have to check, Mister Spock. He does. Highest on my staff.” He glanced at the Vulcan. “I know my people.”

 

There was a moment of silence as the two of them considered the implications of their discussion.

 

“So what do we do now?” McCoy finally ventured. “If you’re right, and the hyper-encephalogram does show a change in Jim’s telepathic powers, Starfleet is going to want more than your assurances that he’s fit for command. Especially after what happened to Gary Mitchell and Doctor Dehner when y’all crossed the galactic barrier.”

 

Spock looked faintly disapproving. “That was due to changes in esper-ability, Doctor. Quite different than telepathy.”

 

“There all considered parapsychological talents. Do you really think the talking heads at Starfleet are going to differentiate? Mitchell practically appointed himself Lord of the Universe, as I recall.” McCoy graced Spock with a rueful smile, as though somewhat apologetic at having to explain the realities of Fleet politics to the Vulcan. “Not everyone at Fleet Command is enamored of our James T. Kirk. There are plenty who think he’s too big for his britches already. Can you imagine what they’ll say when they find out about this? There are some who would just love to try and use this to pull the rug out from under Jim.”

 

The Vulcan’s expression didn’t even attempt to disguise what he thought of such unreasoned absurdity. “That would be highly illogical.”

 

McCoy shrugged, not in disagreement. “That’s politics.”

 

“Then perhaps you should also include in your medical report that, in my opinion, a mind healer might be able to repair the damage I have unwittingly caused the captain.”

 

“A mind healer?” McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “You mean like on Vulcan?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

“Are you suggesting we take Jim to Vulcan?”

 

“I am suggesting he could benefit from an evaluation by a Vulcanian mind healer, whether on Vulcan or elsewhere.”

 

“And that will fix this… this mental dissonance he’s experiencing?”

 

“It is his best option.”

 

McCoy tapped his fingers on the top of his desk. “I’ll have to talk to Jim about this.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“He’s not going to like it.”

 

“You are, in all probability, correct. However, the situation does exist and must be dealt with.”

 

McCoy harrumphed, and glared at Spock. “This is your doing. I should have you explain it to Jim.”

 

“I am willing to discuss the situation with the captain if you request I do so.”

 

“No, no,” McCoy shook his head. “I’ll take the brunt of it, but don’t think you’re getting off easy. If I know the captain, he’ll have some follow up questions for you, and they are bound to be doozies.”

 

“Doozies?”

 

“Just don’t go too far.”

 

Spock glanced at the ceiling, a clear indication that in his opinion the conversation had wandered into the realm of the nonsensical. “I fail to understand how I could ‘go too far’ while I am confined to a starship.”

 

****

 

Seated at the science console, Ensign Madhuri Chowdhury watched in growing sympathy as Lieutenant Uhura handled yet another call from Doctor Tarleton Nar-Qi, the Ithenite anthropologist on board for transport to planet Torrus.

 

“Yes, Doctor Nar-Qi. I understand, Doctor Nar-Qi. I realize your work is important, and I am certain the captain values your time as well.”

 

Chowdhury marveled that not a trace of irritation reached Uhura’s melodious tones as she continued to deal with the petulant anthropologist.

 

“I am sorry, but I cannot connect you to the captain at present. He is currently indisposed, but I will certainly inform him of your concerns.”

_Just as she did the last three times you registered a complaint,_ Madhuri reflected sourly.

 

A flick of Uhura’s efficient fingers lowered the volume in her Feinberg receiver as the Doctor’s tirade continued unabated. “The extra time spent on Ruel was unavoidable,” she explained once again with the infinite patience of a seasoned professional used to dealing with civilian temper tantrums.

 

 _Unavoidable?_ Chowdhury shuddered. She hadn’t been aboard ship long, but _unavoidable delay_ seemed such a benign comment on a situation that had come close to killing both the captain and first officer. She didn’t know the details. The senior members of the crew were being fairly close-lipped about events. Apparently, idle gossip was actively discouraged aboard Enterprise, but Madhuri knew enough of Human nature to realize the tight expressions and furtive looks among more seasoned members of the crew had denoted deep concern.

 

The Vulcanian first officer had returned to the bridge since the explosion on Ruel, so Chowdhury gathered he at least had recovered. However, he seemed as remote as always. People said he and the captain were close friends, but Chowdhury would never had guess it from the Vulcan’s apparent indifference. Not once did he address the captain’s condition, aside from a rather dry pronouncement that he was “recovering.” However, because she was currently shadowing the Vulcan’s science station as part of her bridge rotation, she knew for a fact that Mr. Spock had been almost obsessive about checking on the captain’s progress.   It could just be the professional concern, but when Madhuri had mentioned it to Uhura, she’d gotten a small smile in response. “He’s worried,” was all Uhura would say.

 

_Worried? A Vulcan?_

 

Only recently had the tense demeanor of the more experienced officers begun to dissipate, a situation Chowdhury took to mean the captain was going to be okay. Now that she was actively _looking,_ she also thought she had detected a slight change in the first officer, a loosening of his movements and the return of life to the eyes. Maybe there was something to that ‘friendship’ thing after all.

 

The essence of serenity, Uhura continued her attempts to placate Doctor Nar-Qi. Not that it would make any difference, Chowdhury supposed. The man seemed to view the delay resulting from events on Ruel as a personal affront. “We have contacted Ambassador Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon to explain the situation, but have received no reply at this time.” The name of the Torran ambassador rolled off Uhura’s tongue like music, and, not for the first time, a daunted Chowdhury wondered whether she ever manage to live up to the expectations of this crew. When she’d expressed her concerns to her older brother, he’d laughed. “Maddy, you said you wanted the best, and you got the best. You don’t get assigned to Enterprise if you can’t cut it. Someone thinks you can do it. And you can. You’ve always pushed yourself to the top. I believe in you. Now, _you_ have to believe in you!” She certainly hoped his faith in her wasn’t mistaken.

 

“As soon as we receive word from Torrus I will inform you.” Uhura absently tucked a loose curl of hair back into place and fielded a call from engineering and redirected an update from life sciences to medical while continuing to monitor Nar-Qi’s ongoing invective. “You are free to contact Starfleet Command if you feel it is necessary, Doctor Nar-Qi. Just have your assistants bring me a recorded message tape and I will include it in the next communications dump. No, you may not make use of the emergency channel. As I previously explained to your assistant when she made the initial request, the emergency channel is for use by Starfleet personnel only. As a civilian you will have to send any correspondence via the regular channels.”

 

Catching Chowdhury’s eye roll, she flashed the Ensign quick smile as if to say, _‘Yes, he’s an ass, but I can handle him.’_ “Yes, Doctor. I realize you consider the delay to be an emergency, but Starfleet would not share that view.” Another pause, then Uhura apparently decided Dr. Nar-Qi had tied up her communications console for quite long enough. “I’m sorry, Doctor Nar-Qi, but I have an incoming transmission, priority Sigma Mu Sigma which I must deal with immediately. I am afraid I am going to have to cut short our conversation. Feel free to contact me again when you have that transmission tape ready to upload. Communications out.” Her finger came down decisively on the end-transmission button.

 

Chowdhury was watching her with wide eyes. “Ma’am?”

 

Another of those tranquil smiles. “Yes, Ensign.”

 

“I’ve already done my communications rotation, and I don’t recall an identifier Sigma Mu Sigma. Is it something new?”

 

The smile took on an edge, Chowdhury could not quite identify. “No Ensign. It’s nothing new. It was around when I was at the Academy, though it wasn’t what you might call, official.”

 

“What does it mean? Is it a Starfleet emergency signal?”

 

“Oh yes, it is an emergency identifier, all right.” A demure lowering of the lashes, and a playful curl to the smile that Chowdhury now recognized as mischievous. “It means, ‘Save My Sanity’ Ensign.” She toggled a power switch. “Save.” Twisted a dial. “My.” Then adjusted a tuner with more force than necessary. “Sanity!”

 

And with that, she returned to her duties, leaving Chowdhury with the impression that although she might never live up to the level of competency of this crew, she sure as hell was going to enjoy the challenge.

 

****

 

Perched on the edge of a lab table, Doctor McCoy watched James Kirk totter around Sickbay. Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly sanguine about having Kirk out of bed, but he’d been somewhat surprised that he’d managed to keep the man confined as long as he had without resorting to restraints. Clothed in a rumpled, blue, patient smock, Kirk was doing his best to pace the length of Sickbay while grilling his CMO and first officer. Kirk’s steps might not have been as steadfast as usual, but there was no doubting the tenacity in his voice.

 

“So, you’re telling me I’m currently exposing my innermost thoughts to everyone like some… burlesque dancer on the Orion Circuit?”

 

McCoy swiftly squelched the rather disturbing images _that_ comment elicited, and waved a placating hand at Kirk. “Now Jim. It isn’t as bad as all that. As Spock pointed out, the only people who even know something’s wrong are those with telepathic abilities, and there aren’t very many of those on board.”

 

If anything, Kirk’s expression turned even sourer. “Terrific, so I am just bombarding Mister Spock with my mental… prattle.”

 

“Captain, I am easily able to shield the intrusion of your thoughts.” Spock was standing at parade rest, seemingly relaxed, but McCoy had already seem him twitch once when Kirk had stumbled. The doctor had no doubt should Kirk lose his footing, the captain would never hit the floor.

 

“Not eavesdropping, Spock?” There was an ugly twist to Kirk’s mouth. “Not even tempted? Why not? You’ve already been in my head.” He ran a heavy hand over his face. “Or maybe what you found there was so distasteful…”

 

Spock jerked back a fraction, and McCoy stiffened on his behalf. “Now just a minute…!”

 

“Certainly not, Captain. I…” Spock looked distinctively uncomfortable. “To trespass in your mind without permission would be unconscionable.”

 

For Kirk to say something so brutal only convinced McCoy that the captain was far more unsettled by events than he was admitting.

 

And Kirk himself immediately deflated in contrition. His shoulders slumped and he curled into himself, a hand reaching out to find support against a wall. “Sorry, Spock. Of course you wouldn’t… I know that. I don’t know why I said…” He glanced uncertainly at the Vulcan, and McCoy caught something pass between them. Like the shadow of a butterfly. Ephemeral, flickering understanding.

 

Spock gazed down his long nose and pronounced, “You are overtaxed.”

 

Kirk slumped against the wall. “Overtaxed. Is that it? Ten minutes out of bed, and I’m ‘overtaxed’. I don’t know why you bother with all those fitness requirements, Bones. I don’t have the stamina of a new born kitten.”

 

McCoy levered himself to his feet with a snort. “I’d like to see where you’d be without those fitness requirements, Jim. In case it slipped your mind, we almost lost you on Ruel.” He crossed his arms and tried for his most intimidating scowl. “Now, Spock’s right. You are overtaxed and you need to get back in bed.”

 

Intimidating scowls apparently didn’t work on James Kirk. He ate them for breakfast. Dismissing McCoy, Kirk turned his attention back to Spock. “And you think a Vulcanian healer can help me?”

 

“I cannot be certain, but it is a logical assumption.”

 

Kirk’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

 

“The healer may be able to enter your mind, and repair the neural-damage I have done. If not, he or she could assist you in learning how to shield on your own.”

 

“Mental training? Won’t that take time?”

 

“Once you learn the techniques, you could continue to practice them to gain proficiency.”

 

“How long?”

 

“You are Human. It will likely take you longer to perfect the abilities…”

 

Kirk cut him short, voice clipped, “Stop avoiding the question. How long, Spock.”

 

The Vulcan shifted uncomfortably. “It could conceivably take years of practice.”

 

“Years. Terrific.” Once again, Kirk rubbed at his forehead, swaying slightly. Both Spock and McCoy took steps towards him, but he fended them off with a sharp, hazel-eyed glare. “We can’t go to Vulcan yet. We are already behind schedule, and I need to get Doctor Nar-Qi and his team to Torrus. Uhura tells me he is not too pleased with out delay on Ruel.”

 

“We need not go to Vulcan,” Spock offered. “There is a Vulcanian bio-science lab located on Starbase 16. A Vulcanian healer is also present. It is not far out of our way. We could be there in a matter of days.”

 

“Is it on route to Torrus?”

 

“No, but I have devised a circuitous route that will…”

 

Let it never be said, James Kirk played favorites with his command crew. He disregarded Spock as easily as he had dismissed McCoy. “Then it will have to wait, Spock. You yourself said this… condition, has no effect upon my ability to command. Correct?”

 

“Yes, however…”

 

“Then I suspect I can hold out until we drop off…”

 

But he got no further as Nurse Chapel’s strident protests cut short the comment, and the subject of his concern chose that very moment to make an unexpected appearance.

 

Dr. Tarleton Nar-Qi came sauntering in to the treatment room with an agitated Nurse Chapel on his heels.

 

“Doctor, I’m sorry,” she offered addressing McCoy. “I told him…”

 

“Captain Kirk,” Nar-Qi announced with the presumptuous air of someone used to being accommodated. “I have been attempting to reach you for days, and your crew has been most uncooperative. I do not appreciate being treated like a menial.”

 

McCoy flared. “The captain has been confined to Sickbay for the last few days recovering from debilitating injuries!”

 

With a mollifying gesture, Kirk waved off the CMO. “Bones. It’s okay.”

 

Nar-Qi was not a particularly imposing individual. Like all Ithenites, his voice was high pitched and childish, and he stood barely over a meter in height. But what he lacked in centimeters, he made up for in temerity. As was common among his people, he dressed in brightly colored garments designed to attract attention, and his copper-tinted skin gleamed under the lights of Sickbay.   He was hard to overlook. Arms crossed, he gazed up at Kirk expectantly. “When I boarded your ship, you assured me and my team that we would reach Torrus within nine days. We are fast approaching that deadline.”

 

Nonplused, Kirk acknowledged, “Yes. I regret our earlier delay but it was... necessary. I assure you, we are laying in a course for Torrus immediately and will do everything we can to get you there in a timely manner.”

 

Nar-Qi did not appear impressed. “And am I to understand we will reach Torrus by the designated time?

 

“No. I’m sorry, but even at top speed we are still five days away.”

 

Nar-Qi drew himself up to all of his three hundred twenty-five centimeters and spat, “That is unacceptable!”

 

Kirk spread his hands. “That is… reality. We are contacting the Torran ambassador, and will explain the reasons for our delay. No fault will fall upon you or your team.”

 

Nar-Qi harrumphed. “That is the least you can do, Kirk. I will, of course, report this incompetence to Starfleet. I was guaranteed timely transport to Torrus and your failure to keep your side of the bargain is indicative of systemic ineptitude. Exactly what I would expect from an egomaniacal starship captain such as yourself.” He thrust a stubby finger at Kirk. “You will be held accountable this time, Kirk. I insist upon it!”

 

For his part, Kirk responded with a finger jab of his own, and opened his mouth to deliver what he considered a fair retort, but apparently reconsidered when he caught an eyebrow from Spock. Dealing with unreasonable civilian scientists simply wasn’t cost effective in terms of the expense of effort and energy. Especially when one was dealing with depleted reserves of both. Instead, Kirk let his hand drop heavily to his side, and sighed. “You are free to do what ever you feel is justified, of course, Doctor. In the meantime, we will make all efforts to get you and your people safely to Torrus.”

 

Spock was watching the captain with narrow, dark eyes. He took a step forward, head cocked. “You are in pain.”

 

That caught McCoy’s attention. He straightened and shot a censuring look at the captain. “Jim?”

 

Kirk graced the Vulcan with a sour look. “Peeking Spock? I thought you said you wouldn’t trespass.”

 

Spock’s lips flattened, but he rose to the challenge. “I am not ‘peeking’, Captain. The amount of discomfort you are experiencing has intensified to a level which was able to breach my natural shields.

 

Kirk flushed at that, somewhat disconcerted. “Oh…” he mumbled. “Sorry.” He seemed at a loss as to how to appropriately apologize for leaking one’s innermost emotions and thoughts all over the place.

 

“To insure your privacy, I will, of course strengthen my telepathic barriers in future. However, this does not negate the fact that, at the moment, you are in pain.”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“You let me be the judge of that!” McCoy snapped, pointing insistently towards Kirk’s bio-bed. “Now, are you going to go willingly, or do I have Mister Spock carry you!”

 

Kirk glanced at Spock and the expectant lift of an eyebrow told him was out maneuvered. With a meek look of contrition, he acquiesced, allowing himself to be herded back to bed.

 

Spock turned his attention to Dr. Nar-Qi. “Doctor. As you can see, the captain is presently still recovering from injuries sustained on Ruel. He requires rest. I respectfully request that your refrain from contacting him until such time as he is fully recovered.”

 

Tarleton Nar-Qi planted his hands firmly on hips and glared at Spock. “And when will that be, Mister Spock?”

 

“I am unable to answer that at present.”

 

“Typical! Using his crew to deflect objections and hiding his deficiency behind these supposed ‘injuries’.”

 

Spock’s voice lowered an octave, clear indication to those who knew him that he was growing agitated. “The captain’s injuries were quite real. Now, I must insist that you leave Sickbay and allow the captain his rest.”

 

Doctor Nar-Qi did not look pleased with the situation, but seeing no advantage to continuing the discussion, he capitulated. “Very well. But as your captain apparently remains ‘indisposed’, I will expect to communicate directly with you. You are second in command, are you not?”

 

“I am.”

 

“Then I will anticipate being able to contact you as needed,” Nar-Qi stipulated, as though it were his due. “I will not be put off by servile members of your crew.”

 

“I do have a starship to run, Doctor Nar-Qi.”

 

If Nar-Qi picked up on the dry irony flavoring Spock’s comment, he chose to ignore it. “Your captain stated we are presently proceeding to Torrus?”

 

“That is correct.”

 

“Then, prove yourself more dependable than your captain, and I do not foresee needing to contact you at all.” With that brusque dismissal, Dr. Nar-Qi finally exited Sickbay.

 

***

 

 

Brow drawn together in a frown, Kirk processed the response just received from Ambassador Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon on Torrus. Running a hand across the back of his neck, he reflected that the headache McCoy had banished earlier with one of his elixirs was one again lurking. He glanced towards Spock, who stood at his science station, one raised eyebrow expressing his own surprise at the content of the unexpected communication. Licking his lips, Kirk considered his reply before speaking into the audio link being routed though the universal translator and down to planet Torrus. “Ambassador. I don’t… quite understand. What do you mean, you refuse to meet with Doctor Nar-Qi and his team?”

 

“We have reconsidered,” came the reply in a wet, slushy voice that was neither male nor female but an amalgamation of the two.

 

Kirk waited, expecting more, but apparently the Torran ambassador felt that was sufficient. Not for the first time, Kirk wished for visual contact. He always felt better when he could see those with whom he was conversing. However, in the case of the Torrus, there were sound reasons for avoiding visual interchange. Namely, it was likely to make his bridge crew sick.

 

As noted by various scholars and scientists, a notable percentage of the species encountered throughout explored space were essentially similar in appearance. Such a large number, in fact, as to be indicative of some deliberate plan. Vulcanoids. Orions. Xentians. Humanoids. Andorians. Tellarites. Romulans. Klingons. Ithenites. Caitains. Deltans. All bipeds with bilateral bodily symmetry. In fact, the prevalence of intelligent, bipedal species itself could not be accounted for by natural development. Many theories had been put forth to explain this phenomenon, including the suggestion that the Preservers, an ancient race of beings who had been responsible for seeding life throughout the galaxy, had suffered from a bias towards hominid life forms.

 

The Torrus, however, were an exception to the bipedal prototype. Standing just over three meters tall, they resembled in shape, perhaps nothing more closely than oversized Terran potatoes standing on end. Their lumpy forms were covered by a pliable, translucent brown tinted skin that allowed a blurry view of the workings of their internal organs and bodily systems. When they moved, they secreted mucus to aid in locomotion, leaving behind a trail of thick slime Humans found malodorous.

 

The shifting colors and shapes of Torran anatomy, coupled with their less than pleasing smell, had a pronounced negative effect the sons and daughters of Earth. Reactions ranged from a slight queasiness to intense nausea and bouts of uncontrollable vomiting. This "allergy" to the Torrus proved so debilitating that all initial contacts between the Federation and the Torrus had been conducted by non-Humans. However, subsequent contacts had shown that as long as Humans were forewarned of the possible consequences and limited their contact with the Torrus to short intervals, the worst reactions could generally be avoided.

 

Kirk wasn’t sure if mere visual contact would be enough to debilitate anyone, but he wasn’t keen on finding out. He would stick with audio for now.

 

He leaned forward in his command chair, frustration growing. “Reconsidered? You… reconsidered? Ambassador, may I respectfully remind you, it was the Torran delegation that requested the presence of Doctor Nar-Qi.”

 

“That was before.”

 

Again, that seemed to be all he was going to get.

 

Kirk shot a helpless look at Spock, then returned to the fray. “Before? Before what Ambassador?” He was definitely at a disadvantage in this conversation.

 

“Before you did not arrive as was promised.”

 

 _Shit._ Kirk rubbed at his eyes. Yes, the headache was definitely making a comeback. “Ambassador. We have explained the reasons for our delay. It was unfortunate, but unavoidable. Now, we’ve come a very long way...”

 

“You may leave now.”

 

“Ambassador. Please be realistic…”

 

“Captain,” Uhura swiveled in her chair, an apologetic look on her face. “Contact with the Ambassador has been broken.”

 

“Broken?” Kirk came up out of his chair. “Broken how? Get him back, Lieutenant.”

 

Her fingers flew over the controls. “I’m trying, Captain, but the transmission was disconnected on their end.”

 

Kirk slapped a hand down on the arm of his chair. “Dammit! Keep trying! I didn’t come halfway across the galaxy to have a door slammed in my face!”

 

That brought McCoy to life. The CMO had been hovering at the rear of the bridge, watching Kirk closely. He hadn’t been particularly enthusiastic about allowing Kirk back on the bridge in the first place. And he certainly wasn’t pleased with the level of agitation Kirk was displaying. “Jim!”

 

Kirk whirled on him, then pitched sideways, reaching out blindly to catch at the arms of his chair as the bridge reeled around him.  


Spock was beside him in an instant. He caught Kirk by the arm and steered him into his command seat. “Captain?”

 

Kirk impatiently shook off Spock’s hand. “I’m fine. Just got a little dizzy.”

 

Then McCoy was there, eyes flashing daggers. “What did I tell you about demanding too much of yourself too soon?” He ran his scanner over Kirk, his lips pursed in a scowl.

 

Kirk waved a dismissive hand. “Bones, talking with the Torran ambassador is hardly what I’d consider harmful.”

 

“That’s not what my instruments are telling me!”

 

Spock shifted his attention. “Doctor?”

 

McCoy harrumphed as he read the readings on his tricorder. “Nothing serious. Just some stress related changes in blood pressure.” He glowered at Kirk. “Jim, I don’t like this. You’re pushing yourself too hard. You should still be in Sickbay.”

 

“Oh no,” Kirk’s glare was every bit as stern as McCoy’s. “You are not locking me back up in that dungeon.”   He spun to face the communications officer. “Any luck, Uhura?”

 

She shook her head regretfully. “No, Captain. I’m sorry. They are refusing to answer my hails.”

 

Kirk levered himself out of the chair. “Well, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad…”

 

“Casting yourself in the role of prophet, Captain?” Spock inquired with a hint of something Kirk chose to interpret as humor.

 

“No, Spock. Casting myself in the role of beleaguered starship captain.”

 

McCoy planted himself firmly in Kirk’s path. “And just what are you planning?”

 

Kirk tugged his shirt into place and considered the chances of successfully dodging around McCoy. “I am planning on beaming down to the surface of Torrus and speaking personally with the ambassador.”

 

“Oh no you’re not!”

 

“Bones…”

 

“I mean it, Jim. You shouldn’t tax yourself any further!”

 

Kirk sighed, and resigned himself to the headache. “I am actually trying _not_ to tax myself any further.”

 

McCoy looked exceedingly skeptical, but at least he wasn’t bustling Kirk back to Sickbay – yet. “How do you figure that.”

 

“If I don’t fix this mess,” Kirk noted, with a droll twist of his mouth, “the only thing I am going to hear, from now until we dump Doctor Tarleton Nar-Qi and his team at the nearest Starbase, is what a wretched failure I am and how I should do the universe a favor, resign my commission and take up basket weaving, as it is about the only thing for which I am suitable.” He rubbed at a temple. “And that, gentlemen, _would_ be taxing”

 

At his side, Spock slipped into lecture mode, offering his professional insight. “As I understand it, the process of weaving fibers into baskets can require a high degree of dedication and concentration. It is a craft which has been practiced on Vulcan since the earliest stages of our evolution.”

 

Kirk turned to him, feeling extremely under whelmed. “Really, Mister Spock? That is exceptionally… unhelpful.”

 

As Spock mulled that over, Kirk glanced over the first officer’s shoulder towards the communications station. “Miss Uhura, please have Mister Scott report to the bridge, and arrange for someone to cover your station. I’d like to have you in on this. Your communications expertise might come in handy.” He tapped a finger against his lips, thinking. “I’ll also need a security detail. Have a team meet me in the transporter room.” A nod towards the Vulcan. “Spock, you’re with me.”

 

“Yes, sir.”  


McCoy had not budged. He stood rooted as firmly as a Vorshian thorn brush. “If you insist on beaming down there to meet with those spuds, I’m coming along!”

 

“Bones, I don’t think…

 

“That’s the only way I’ll to agree to this Jim.” His expression clearly read, ‘ _Don’t push me_.’

 

Knowing McCoy wasn’t one to make idle threats, Kirk amiably agreed. “Okay. Let’s go.”

 

Gathering Spock McCoy and Uhura he stepped up to the tubolift and was waiting when it deposited Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott on the bridge. “Mister Scott. You have the con. We’re beaming down to meet with the Torrus.”

 

“Aye,” the Scotsman replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll take bonnie care of her for you, sir.” His warm brown eyes crinkled at the edges. “Have a’care with those wee beasties. I hear they can turn a man’s stomach.”

 

“We will, Mister Scott.”

 

****

 

Doctor Nar-Qi and his team were waiting in the transporter room, equipment piled around their feet, and in one case, tentacles.

 

Beleaguered starship captain indeed. Kirk’s headache shifted into high gear in mere anticipation of the upcoming confrontation.

 

“Doctor…” That was as far as he got.

 

Tarleton Nar-Qi stepped forward, face flushed with irritation. “Kirk! I understand we have arrived at Torrus. Why wasn’t I informed?”

 

Kirk tried for charming, though he suspected it would have little effect on the diminutive Ithenite. “We were establishing communications, Doctor Nar-Qi. You would have been notified as soon as we had made the appropriate arrangements for you and your personnel to beam down.”

 

Nar-Qi glanced over the members of the landing party. “But you are obviously beaming down now!”

 

“Yes. I am taking a landing party down to the planet to discuss…”

 

“Then we will join you.”

 

The charming smile wavered just a little. “I am afraid that is presently out of the question.”

 

“It would be inadvisable,” added Spock.

 

But Nar-Qi would not be put off. “Nonsense,” he sniffed scornfully. “We are here to study the Torrus, and I will not have you interfering, Kirk.”

 

“Doctor…”

 

Turning his back on the captain of the Enterprise, Nar-Qi addressed his people, shooing them towards the transporter platform. “Okay people. Look lively. Up you go. Doshal, be careful with those transponders. We don’t want a repeat of that incident on Hinidrian.”

 

Lieutenant Uhura, who had already moved into position on a transporter pad had to step aside to avoid being trampled on by a lumbering Grazerite.

 

Kirk abandoned charming all together. “Doctor Nar-Qi,” he snapped. “You are not beaming down.”

 

“Don’t worry, _Captain_ ,” Nar-Qi drawled the title as though it tasted foul on his tongue. “We will not obstruct with your work, as long as you don’t hinder ours.” He waved imperiously at the transporter chief. “Go on. Fire her up!”

 

Kirk shot the transporter tech a look that promised years of hard labor on a penal colony if he so much as touched a control and stalked over to the transporter platform. “I repeat. You are not beaming down to the planet. Now, get off my transporter!”

 

Standing on the platform added additional height to Nar-Qi, and he was nearly able to look Kirk in the eye, a situation of which he took full advantage. “You were assigned to transport my people to Torrus , Captain Kirk. You failed to accomplish that successfully, and now you are attempting to forbid me to do the job I was sent here to do.” Hands on hips he berated the captain. “You are a disgrace, Kirk, and I will certain inform Starfleet that you are obviously incapable of command. When I finish with you, you’ll be lucky to pilot a garbage scow!”

 

Well aware of McCoy intense scrutiny, Kirk managed to keep a reign on his temper. Barely. Pinching the bridge of his nose against the rising pain in his head, he took a deep breath. “Doctor. You may not beam down because the Torrus have denied you permission to do so. I am attempting to mitigate the situation, but it order to do so, I need to beam down, and I can’t do that until you… get… off… my… transporter!” He spread his hands. “Please!”

 

Nar-Qi’s team milled about uncertainly on the platform, seeking guidance from their director. He was still staring stubbornly at Kirk, unwilling to budge.

 

Kirk put his last card on the table. “I can have security remove you and confine you to quarters. I would rather not have to, but I will…”

 

“The Torrus denied us permission to beam down?”

 

Spock nodded. “That is correct.”

 

“Why?” Nar-Qi looked genuinely puzzled. “They are the ones that invited us. Why would they change their minds now?”

 

Kirk was not about to admit that arriving late might have a great deal to do with sudden reluctance on the part of the Torrus. “That is what we are trying to determine, Doctor. Now, if you will step aside, maybe we can get you an answer.”

 

Still grumbling, Nar-Qi led his assistants off the platform. “You better fix this, Kirk. Though I don’t know why I should expect someone like you to manage anything without making a complete disaster of it. I have never encountered such a complete lack of professionalism in my life…”

 

He was still ranting as the landing team dissolved into energy sparkles.

 

****

 

Kirk was radiating barely leashed anger as they materialized on the planet. It was an affirmation of his admirable skills as a diplomat that none of his raging inner frustration was revealed in either stance or voice as he as he stepped forward to greet the awaiting Torri.

 

To avoid any unpleasant ‘diplomatic incidents’ arising from the appearance and smell of the Torrus, the landing party had all been well briefed, and if needed, McCoy stood ready to offer injections of a mild sedative. These precautions would hopefully keep them from embarrassing themselves or their Torran hosts.

 

Aware of Human's unusual sensitivity to the sight of the Torrus Spock was keeping an unobtrusive eye on his fellow shipmates, but there was little reaction aside from a few heavy swallows and a soft groan from a member of the security team. Spock allowed his diligence to ease just a fraction; thankfully, it appeared no one was going to succumb to bouts of retching. His own scrutiny of the pulsing, fluctuating greens and yellows of the soupy Torran interiors evoked in him nothing more problematic that scientific curiosity. Vulcanoids were apparently immune to the "allergic reaction".

 

The tingling effects of the transporter had barely faded when Kirk stepped forward to confront the Torri, apparently wishing to get this situation over with as soon as possible. Uhura shadowed him, making small adjustments on her portable universal translator as they drew closer to the gathered Torri. Although the Captain appeared composed, Spock could read tension in the tight shoulders and lightly curled fingers.

 

"Ambassador Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon..."

 

Spock raised an appreciative eyebrow at the Captain's ability to handle the multi-syllable Torran title.

 

"I would like an explanation for your refusal to meet with Doctor Nar-Qi and his personnel. I assure you, any complaints you have with our late arrival are solely my responsibility and should in no way reflect upon the Doctor.”

 

In Uhura’s hands, the translator sang out a stream of musical notes directed at the Torri.

 

Anyone who didn't know James Kirk would imagine the smooth, almost overly cordial tone indicated considerable esteem, but Spock knew his Captain, perhaps far better than anyone else did, and he realized the soft beguiling voice was indicative of Kirk's continued agitation. Kirk at his softest was often Kirk at his most dangerous.

 

"Surely we can discuss..."

 

Between one step and the next Kirk suddenly stiffened and froze. His forward momentum would have sent him face down in the dirt if had Lieutenant Uhura not reacted swiftly, reaching out a hand to steady him.

 

"Captain?” the communications officer inquired, tone alarmed.

 

Ever alert to possible threats, Yalina Alvarez of Security reacted immediately, darting forward to Kirk’s side. “Sir?” Alverez was a short, stocky, honey skinned woman native to the Iberian Peninsula of Earth. Her dark gaze sharpened, and she reflexively grasped Kirk by the arm as she took in his expression.

 

Kirk seemed unaware of the women’s concern. He stared straight ahead, startled hazel eyes too big in a face gone deathly pale. A strangled protest gurgled and died in his throat.

 

"Jim!" McCoy hurried forward. "What is it? What's wrong?"

 

Kirk swayed, then folded as his knees buckled. Uhura, hampered by the translator in her hands, lost her grip on the captain, but Alvarez executed a deft catch about Kirk's waist and gentle lowered her superior to the ground.

 

"Spock!" McCoy shouted over his shoulder as he bent to kneel beside the Captain, but the first officer was already moving. As McCoy unslung his tricorder and began an initial scan, Spock dropped to his knees beside Alvarez, none to gently appropriating her hold on Kirk.

 

Kirk was clutching his head, fingers tearing at his skull as though trying to rip it apart. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets and there was no awareness in their depths. As Spock slid a supportive arm behind his back, Kirk began to convulse, arching and writhing in the Vulcan's grip. Thin, keening cries and whimpers escaped Kirk's bloodless lips, the unholy sound raising the hairs on the back of McCoy's neck as he ran a scanner over his thrashing friend.

 

"Doctor!" Spock snapped, Vulcanian control slipping.

 

"I don't know!" McCoy growled in reply, angry at himself and medical instrumentation that refused to give him an answer. "Some kind of seizure. It's not a toxin. Not one I can detect at least." He dug for a hypo. "Hold him still!"

 

Spock wrapped both arms around his captain, cradling him close, but, even countered by Vulcanian strength, Kirk's spasms were still strong enough to rock them both.

 

McCoy pressured the contents of the hypo into Kirk. The captain slumped in Spock's arms as the sedative took effect, but his limbs continued to flop and twitch weakly.

 

McCoy took another reading, shaking his head at the results. "His brain activity has gone haywire, Spock! It's like he's being short circuited. Neural network over stimulated.   Autonomic systems shutting down. Cerebral hemorrhaging..." He trailed off as the need to counter the symptoms took precedence over speech, but Spock had already ceased listening. He now understood what had happened

 

The Torrus were a race of highly sensitive telepaths. Upon beaming down, Spock had instinctively strengthened his shields to prevent either inadvertently projecting or receiving thoughts. However, Kirk had no such abilities. He had no way to silence his currently heightened psychic voice. And he had been angry - furious with Nar-Qi and irritated with the Torri. They had obviously interpreted his fierce thoughts as an attack and had retaliated in kind.

 

Eyes narrowed, lips compressed, the Vulcan surged to his feet. “Lieutenant,” he snapped, taking Uhura’s wrist in a tight grip, and hauling her in his wake. “I require the translator!” At some later time, he would regret the strength of his grasp which was fierce enough to bruise Human flesh, but at the moment, he was solely focused on halting the deadly assault on Kirk.

 

"STOP!" he roared, striding towards the Torri, Uhura at his side. The gelatinous interiors of the Torri were radiating a pulsing orange light. Now that Spock realized their intent, he could feel the power of their minds flaring outward, concentrating upon Kirk, wrapping about him like a giant fist of psychic energy, intent on crushing his mind.  

 

At Spock's shout, the Torri had shifted their focus, turning their minds towards the Vulcan.   Quickly, Spock wrestled his own negative reactions into submission. If the Torri sensed the outrage that had momentarily overwhelmed his controls, they might decide he constituted a danger as well. He had no desire to experience their mental onslaught.

 

"Release him," Spock commanded, striving for Vulcanian calm as he came to a halt before Torrd Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon. "It was not an attack. He meant no harm. You will destroy his mind."

 

The translator warbled its message.

 

"Captain Kirk sang hurt at us...." came the reply in its asexual voice. "We heard his mind song of fire. He must be silenced."

 

Spock choose his words carefully, fully aware of the captain's vulnerability to the Torri and of McCoy's undertone of urgency as he placed a call to the ship. He must move swiftly, but with discretion.

 

"Captain Kirk was... distressed at your refusal to meet with Doctor Nar-Qi. His... song... was not meant to be heard by others. It is rare for Humans to have the capacity of mind-song. Captain Kirk has only recently acquired the ability. He is… _kae-kan rivinik_." He used the Vulcanian term for a child who has not yet mastered the ability to shield. There was no equivalent in Human language.

 

Uhura glanced towards him, eyes wide as she took in the implication of what he was saying. She alone among the landing party understood the reference he had chosen.

 

"He is... brain damaged?" The query was liquid music.

 

Spock stiffened at the term. Apparently, there was no exact equivalent in the Torran language either. Unfortunately, due to the mental attack upon the Captain, the unpleasant description might be more accurate than he wished to contemplate.

 

"Yes. He is... damaged. If there was offense given it was in innocence."

 

Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon stretched upward, its body thinning as it rose past Spock's waist, almost as though it were using height to establish authority.   The rest of the Torri bobbed and flattened, their internal colors fading to dull earth tones.

 

"If no offense was meant, no offense is taken. We regret... miscommunication."

 

"Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon, pu hanni mehmmmubbla." Spock replied, bending slightly at the waist as he offered the traditional words of closure. Turning, he dismissed the Torri, and moved swiftly back to crouch beside his injured captain. Kirk's command tunic was twisted and smudged with dirt, his face streaked with scarlet where trickles of blood had flowed from nose and ears. The trails of crimson looked too bright against the pale, waxen skin. His head lolled in Alvarez's' lap. Her slim, brown fingers stood out in sharp contrast to his too pale skin as she absently brushed stray locks of hair back from his sweaty forehead. "Sir?" she focused fierce brown eyes upon her commander. "The Torri?" Her hand inched close to her phaser.

 

He understood the nature of the query. "Take no action that could be considered hostile, ensign. The captain's life may depend upon it."

 

McCoy knelt at the captain's side, one hand holding a running scanner, the other wrapped around Kirk's wrist in a gesture that bespoke both professional intent and comfort.

 

He glanced up into Spock's smoldering dark eyes.

 

"Spock! There's nothing more I can do for him down here. We have to get him back to the ship now or we're gonna lose him! "

 

Spock retrieved his communicator. "The Torri will no longer oppose our departure, Doctor. I trust you have a medical team standing by." At McCoy's affirmative nod, he flipped open the communicator grid. "Mister Scott. Beam the landing party aboard."

 

 

*****

 

Doctor Nar-Qi and his assistants were still roaming about the transporter room when the landing team was beamed aboard. In the chaos of the first few minutes spent getting Kirk on a grav-stretcher and headed to Sickbay, the scientists hung back out of the melee. However, as Spock made to follow the medical team down the hall, he found his way blocked by the Lilliputian Ithenite.

 

“Well, Mister Spock, it appears your captain has put his foot in it again.”

 

Spock watched with a tense expression as the blue shirted medical team disappeared around a bend in the corridor, then turned impatiently to the archeologist. “What is it you require, Doctor?”

 

“What do I require? Why the same thing I’ve always wanted! To be allowed to do my job.” He gestured towards his waiting personnel. “We’re ready to beam down now. So if you would please instruct your crew to transport us to the surface, we will get out from under your feet.”

 

Spock shook his head. “I regret that is not permissible at present. The Torrus have perpetrated an aggressive act against the captain. Currently, they are deemed potentially hostile by Starfleet Directive 011. I cannot beam you down into a conceivably dangerous situation.”

 

Nar-Qi flipped a hand dismissively. “No doubt your captain brought it upon himself. He is most annoying. It is about time someone took him down a peg.”

 

At his sides, Spock's hands curled into fists, but none of his agitation reached his voice. “You are guests aboard the Enterprise. As such, you are my responsibility. I cannot allow you to put yourselves in harm’s way.”

 

“Do not concern yourself with us, Mister Spock. We are quite capable of looking after ourselves.” He stepped closer and poked Spock in the stomach. “Look at it this way, Vulcan, if you beam us down to Torrus, we will no longer _be_ your responsibility.”

 

“True. However, in order to transport you to Torrus, I would have to relinquish my responsibility to you. And that I cannot do, therefore I cannot beam you down at this time.”

 

Doctor Nar-Qi thrust a pudgy finger at Spock. “You people are impossible! I would think that you, of all people, would understand. You _are_ a scientist, or so you say, but it appears you too are just another lackey for the military arm of Starfleet. I demand you allow me and my party to beam down to Torrus!”

 

 

As much as Spock might wish to rid himself of the troublesome anthropologist, his duty was clear. “That is a demand I cannot honor at this time. Now, if you will excuse me, my presence is required elsewhere.” Turning on his heels, he dismissed the scientist and hurried towards Sickbay.

 

 

****

 

 

McCoy stripped off his surgery scrubs and gave them a toss in the general direction of the recycle shoot, knowing that even if he missed one of the nurses tidying the surgical bay would see that they were properly disposed of.

 

He wasn't surprised to find the first officer hovering unobtrusively outside the door to the surgical wing, that is, if anyone who commanded as much presence as the tall, austere Vulcan could ever be unobtrusive.

 

McCoy passed the Vulcan with a grunt of recognition and continued on into his office. As expected, Spock fell into step behind him, placing himself opposite the desk as McCoy flopped into his chair.

 

"Doctor?" There was no need for further words. They both knew why Spock was there.

 

"Asking if your command of the Enterprise might be permanent this time?" McCoy leaned back in the chair and massaged the bridge of his nose. "I just don't know… Dammit! We just barely got him back on his feet after Ruel, and now this! Whatever those Torran bastards did, they messed him up pretty badly." He noted Spock's covert glance towards the ICU and softened his expression, answering the question that would never be voiced and offering reassurance that would never be sought. "Chapel's monitoring. If he so much as twitches a finger she'll let us know. There's really not much we can do till he wakes up. Right now it's a waiting game."

 

"His condition?"

 

McCoy let out his breath in a slow sigh. "I managed to repair most of the physical damage... cerebral hemorrhaging, subdural hematoma, elevated blood pressure, fluid build up in the cranium..." He fixed Spock with a piercing blue gaze. "You realize we won't know for sure the extent of his injuries till he regains consciousness."

 

"I am aware that the trauma he suffered could result in a permanent diminishing of brain function."

 

The facade of Vulcanian composure didn't fool McCoy for an instant. "Brain damage... yes, there is that, but there's something else... something strange..." McCoy's focus grew distant, his lower lip protruded in a frown. "I can't quite put my finger on it..."

 

Spock raised a quizzical eyebrow. "'Something strange?' Is that a medical diagnosis, Doctor."

 

McCoy shot him a sharp glare. "It's the best I can come up with at the moment.   His brainwaves are still running amuck and the stress indicator is through the ceiling. I don't dare give him a heavy sedative, not with the cerebral trauma. Doing so could send him so deep we might not get him back." He waved a hand in frustration. "I really don't know what we are dealing with here, Spock. You say the Torrans initiated some sort of mental attack on the captain?"

 

"The correct usage is 'Torri', Doctor. There were only five individual Torrd present. Furthermore, the greater plural is 'Torrus' not 'Torrans'."

 

McCoy opened his mouth with the intent of telling Spock to shut his trap, but swallowed the heated words before they slipped out. He'd worked with the Vulcan long enough to know that this current infatuation with grammar was Spock's way of trying to sublimate his concern for Jim Kirk. The Doctor settled for shooting the first officer a blistering scowl.

 

"And technically, the Torri did not initiate the attack. Captain Kirk did."

 

"What!" McCoy rocked forward, coming half out of his seat. "Are you out of your Vulcan mind? Jim didn't do anything to those Torrds... Torran... Turds... whatever they are! You were there, Spock. How can you say Jim attacked them?"

 

Spock kept his own tone level. "The attack was not intentional, Doctor. However, from the Torri perspective, it did occur."

 

McCoy shook his head. "I don't understand."

 

"You recall out conversation concerning the captain’s heightened mental resonance.”

 

"Yes. I remember. What about it? Are you saying it had something to do with what happened down there?"

 

Spock nodded. "The Torrus are highly sensitive telepaths. They do not require physical contact to receive impressions. When we beamed down, the captain's disposition towards Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon was not entirely... congenial. Without the ability to shield his thoughts, they were easily received by the Torri. His words and gestures would have carried little meaning. For the Torrus, it is the mind that speaks the truth, and in Captain Kirk's mind they heard anger, primarily directed towards one of their highest officials. In essence, the Torri came expecting a handshake and were greeted instead with - I believe the colloquial usage is - a sucker punch. They reacted accordingly."

 

"You're saying they read Jim's anger and thought he was going to attack them?"

 

"Essentially correct. The negative emotions of another can be very unpleasant to a telepath, Doctor, and as an unforeseen result of our melding, the captain has developed an unusually loud mental voice for a Human. The Torri would have been surprised.   Whether the attack was to be mental or physical, the Torri felt the need to defend their leader. Under the circumstances, their reaction was quite logical."

 

"Logical!" McCoy hollered. "They almost killed him!"

 

"Indeed." Spock clasped his hands stiffly behind his back, and straightened, expression uncharacteristically grim. "It was a situation I should have foreseen."

 

McCoy paused in his tirade and cocked an eyebrow at Spock. So that was it. Guilt - a difficult emotion to deal with even if you were willing to admit its existence. "You couldn't have known what would happen."

 

"No, but I was aware of the captain’s condition. I should have realized such a misunderstanding could occur and taken steps to prevent it. I was remiss in my duties to the captain, and to this ship."

 

"Spock," McCoy tempered his tone. "If you look at it that way, I'm as much at fault as you. I knew about Jim's condition too, and it never occurred to me something like this could happen. You can't blame yourself."

 

But Spock would not be swayed. "You are not used to considering the parameters of telepathic communication. It is not unexpected that you would fail to recognize the implications in this situation. I, however, have no excuse for my oversight."

 

"Spock, this argument is pointless. Either one of us could have realized the danger, but we didn't. What's done is done. The important thing now is to do everything we can to help Jim."

 

Spock's stiff backed stance relaxed just a fraction, apparently conceding the point. "What would you suggest?"

 

"Well..." McCoy nibbled his lower lip in thought. "Like I said, right now we sit tight... see what develops." He shot a speculative look at the Vulcan. Spock might never admit it, but McCoy knew he was deeply concerned about Kirk. James Kirk was more than a commanding officer to Spock; he was the Vulcan's closest friend, a dear thing to a man who generally held himself aloof from those around him. McCoy also knew that Spock held himself accountable, not only for what he perceived as his failure to protect his captain on Torrus, but also for eroding Kirk's mental barriers through repeated uses of the mind fusion. It would do no good to point out that each time the Vulcan had chosen to meld with Kirk it had been necessary to preserve either the captain's life or reason, and often both. How could McCoy get Spock to admit the "illogic" of his propensity for self-recrimination when he wouldn't even admit the feeling existed?  

 

McCoy shook his head over the inherent stubbornness of green-blooded, pointy-eared Vulcan-Human hybrids, and decided to hand out a veiled prescription. Giving Spock something constructive to do would keep him from wallowing, and might benefit Kirk as well. "It might help," he grumbled, as though in after-thought , "if I had a better idea just what those Torri did to Jim."

 

Spock's head went up, and he nodded, apparently eager to cooperate in his own deception. "I will arrange to speak with the ambassador. The Torri may be able to repair some of the damage of their attack." He turned to go, but paused in the doorway, one hand on the lintel as though for support. He seemed to debate with himself for a moment before he spoke. He did not turn around. "Doctor..." The voice was a low murmur. " Would it be possible for me to see the captain for a few moments?"

 

Behind Spock's back, McCoy's lips twitched in a soft, sad smile, a recognition of this man's worth and sincere regret over his self imposed isolation, isolation from all but one man, James Kirk, who now lay in ICU fighting for his life and sanity. "Certainly, Mister Spock," McCoy replied, keeping his tone carefully professional. "I think that can be arranged."

 

 

*****

 

Spock needed information from the Torrd Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon and he did not trust ship to shore communication to convey the precise meaning of his request. Nor did he wish to rely upon the inexact nature of the universal translator. The need for accuracy was too great. There could be no room for miscommunication. He chose instead to beam down to Torrus. He did not inform Doctor McCoy or Mister Scott of his full intentions, as it was highly probable that they would protest his decision to initiate mental contact with the same being that had been responsible for the attack on Captain Kirk. However, Captain Kirk's life was in danger - sufficient reason to take the risk. That he was not acting in a precisely logical manner was something Spock did not dwell upon. He had long ago admitted to himself that his logic was somewhat faulty when it came to the well being of one James T. Kirk.

 

Torrd Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon was most eager to honor Spock's request for a meeting. The Torrus were not a violent race. As with most telepaths, they abhorred inflicting pain upon others, and the Torru was genuinely distressed over what had occurred.   S/he willingly offered whatever assistance s/he could to undo the damage the mental assault of the Torri had wrought.

 

As the Torrus were more powerful telepaths than Vulcans, it was agreed that Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon would act as guide during the meld with Mister Spock. Gently s/he led Spock through an intimate exchange of thought and information. The integrity of his mind preserved by a clear, protective bubble, he drifted through landscapes of entwined perceptions, shifting impressions, and images that flowed like a melody. The mind song of the Torrus swept him up in its haunting chorus, and for a moment, he was but one note in a symphony of sorrow, a singer in an endless dirge of mourning for the loss of something precious - a mind - a mercurial, shining mind that reverberated like the single chime of a small silver bell. He had only an instant to realize that this was his own thought, his own concept of Jim Kirk offered up to the song. Then Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon reached out her/his mind and plucked him free from the music, bringing him safely back to his self.

 

He came to awareness of his exile curled on his side in the dust before Torrd Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon. He felt torn asunder, abandoned and bereft. His face was wet with tears, though he did not recall weeping.

 

"Torru Spock..." warbled the Torrd, his/her internal systems muted to dull colors that Spock now understood expressed distress. "You mind song grows weak. To continue would be a danger to you."

 

Slowly, Spock rolled to his knees, and with some effort managed to regained his feet and his dignity. "Yes," he agreed tugging his tunic into place and brushing dirt from his uniform. "Mental contact with the Torrus is... exacting." He swayed slightly as he regarded Torrd Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon. “However, I have gained the information I required. I thank you for your cooperation."

 

The Torrd undulated urgently. "Understand you, Torru Spock, that the Torrus will undo the hurt we have caused?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Understand you that one hurt will be paid for by another, so that healing can begin?"

 

"Yes, I understand Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon.”

 

The Torrd stretched upward, weaving back and forth before the Vulcan like an agitated cobra. "You will sing our song to the ship? You will sing to your healer?"

 

"I will present your proposal,” Spock affirmed. “We will let you know our decision in this regard.”

 

Torrd Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon’s internal colors brightened, expressing satisfaction. “That is agreeable. You may send the Federation scientists among us. We have touched your mind and understand now. No harm will come to them.”

 

“Doctor Nar-Qui and his team will be pleased with this news,” Spock acknowledged. Indeed, most of the crew would be also quite gratified to see the highly emotional scientist depart the Enterprise. Spock half bowed to the Torru. "I must now depart to bring your song to my people. Pu hanni mehmmmubbla."

 

 

*****

 

_Confusion._

_Where?_

_Lost._

_Pain._

_Disorientation._

_Voices._

_Too many voices._

_Who am I?_

_Pain._

_Go away!_

_Stop. Stop. STOP!_

_Can’t…_

_Who am I?_

_Someone please…_

_Too much…_

_Panic._

_Chaos._

_Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!_

_Help me… help me… Please… stop!_

_Get out of my head!_

_The pain…_

_Make it stop!_

_MAKE IT STOP!_

_MAKEITSTOP!_

_STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!_

*****

 

Armed with the knowledge gained in mental contact with the Torrus, Spock could have predicted the commotion he encountered upon entering sickbay.

 

"Spock!" McCoy pounced on him the moment he cleared the doors. "Where the hell have you been?" He waved a hand dismissing the question as soon as it was asked. "Never mind that. My people are dropping like flies. Sudden headaches.   Disorientation. Nausea. I've had to hospitalize two of my nurses and so far we can't get a handle on what's causing it!" He winced and rubbed the side of his head. "What'd you find out about Jim?"

 

Spock glanced around at the sickbay personnel, noting the ashen faces and uncoordinated movements. "I assume Captain Kirk has regained consciousness."

 

"Yes. He's semi-conscious. Came out of it about ten minutes ago." McCoy suddenly blanched and staggered, clutching at his head. As Spock reached out a supportive hand to the doctor, one of the nurses near the door to the ICU moaned and wilted to the floor.

 

McCoy massaged his temples. "How'd you know?"

 

Spock took McCoy's elbow in a firm grip and steered him into a chair. "Doctor, you must discharge all non-essential personnel from sickbay immediately and dismiss those members of your staff with telepathy ratings of 250 psi or higher. They are a danger to the captain and he to them." It was possible that evacuating just the Sickbay would not be adequate, but until Spock could deduce the parameters of the phenomena, it would have to suffice.

 

Face screwed in a tight grimace, McCoy peered at him out of one eye. "You're saying Jim is the cause of all this?"

 

"Yes. It is telepathic esper-resonance. The sensations you are experiencing are emanating from his mind. The attack by the Torri has amplified the damage I did in my earlier meld. He now has no barriers and his thoughts are being magnified and broadcast to all those around him. I can shield, but Humans have no natural screens to mental energy. The higher the telepathic sensitivity of the individual, the more debilitating the effect will be. "

 

McCoy was exerting a concentrated effort to make sense of Spock's words. "What about Jim? If he has no barriers...?"

 

"Precisely, Doctor. Your thoughts are also impinging on his consciousness. He is being overwhelmed by impressions that are not his own.   We must find a way to protect his mind or he will certain become catatonic if not irrevocably insane.

 

"How? Can you do something?" McCoy hissed, teeth clenched against the pain.

 

"I propose to meld with him. I can shield his mind, perhaps help him to erect barriers of his own."

 

McCoy shook his head. "But you said that would take years of training?"

 

Spock did not answer, but the flesh around his mouth tightened in unease. Obviously, there were flaws in his plan he was not inclined to discuss. "You may remain here, Doctor," he intoned, before heading for the ICU.

 

"The hell I will," groused McCoy, coming out of his chair, yelling orders to clear Sickbay as he trailed, none to steadily, in the Vulcan's wake.

 

***

 

 

Christine Chapel squinted at the readings over the Captain's bed, willing herself to see past the exploding nova that was obscuring her vision. Her grip on bio-bed rail was knuckle white, and she used deep breaths to keep her head clear. Not unlike an untreated migraine, this pain, she reflected. Though she wasn't prone to them herself, she had heard descriptions from those who were. However, as far as she knew migraines were not contagious, and whatever was troubling her had also affected most of the sick bay personnel. Whatever the cause of the headaches, at the moment it wasn't her concern. Dr. McCoy and the others were looking into the situation. Her job was to keep a professional eye on the captain.

 

Kirk thrashed on the bed, a soft moan escaping from dry lips. Chapel reached out to place a comforting hand on his brow, wondering if he too were suffering from the headaches and nausea. His skin was warm beneath her touch, warm and damp with sweat.

 

"It's all right, Captain," she murmured in a soothing tone, then gritted her teeth as a flare of pain went off in her skull like a phaser bolt. She tightened her hold on the bed rail and fought to stay on her feet.

 

The whoosh of the ICU doors caught her attention. Turning, she greeted the approaching blur in science blue. "Mister Spock..." For a moment, she was unable to say anything further for her movements had sent the room into a tail spin, and all she could do was close her eyes and hold on. When she regained some sense of balance, she noted that Doctor McCoy had also entered the room and stood hovering at Spock's shoulder.

 

"Doctor," she breathed, struggling to get the words past a tongue gone leaden in her mouth.   "Stress indicator rising. Heart rate increasing. Blood pressure..." McCoy's face began to fade at the edges, bleeding away into darkness. "Blood pressure is… Doctor, I..."

 

Eyes rolling back in her head, Christine Chapel did a fair imitation of a marionette bereft of supporting strings. Spock caught her before she could hit the floor, and in a move that would have been the envy of even the most accomplished dancer in the Russian Bolshoi ballet, spun her lightly around and into McCoy's arms.

 

The sputtering CMO suddenly found himself with his arms full of head nurse. In his initial surprise he almost dropped her, but chivalry won out and he managed to shift his hold before they both ended up in an undignified heap on the floor.

 

"Nurse Chapel!" he growled indignantly, but she was obviously beyond the reach of even his most irate upbraiding. With a sigh of resignation, he lifted her in his arms and carried her towards the door. He moved with care, for Christine Chapel was no delicate little, flower; she was a lot of woman, and McCoy figured it was still a toss up as to whether he would get her to safety before slipping a disk.

 

"I'll be back," he told Spock before staggering out of the room, but the Vulcan was bent over Kirk's bed, his slender fingers cradling the captain's skull in the meld position. He did not seem to hear.

 

****

 

“My mind to yours,” Spock murmured, his eyes fluttering shut. A few deep breaths to steady himself as he slipped beneath the surface of Kirk’s thoughts, and descended into…

_Pandemonium._

_A whirlwind of sensations…_

_Fear._

_Panic._

_Confusion._

 

No golden oat fields here. No farmhouse porch. No sunlight and blue skies. Just a tumult of tormented images and thoughts. Fragments of madness. A mind under assault, crying out for meaning and stability.

 

Spock realized he had to work quickly if he was to save anything of James Kirk’s sanity.

 

Reaching out he tried to capture the shreds of Kirk’s mind, grasping hold and seeking to draw them near, hoping to piece them together into a whole. But they slipped away, whirling out of reach, spinning off into darkness and disorder.  

 

Frustrated, he increased his efforts, snatching determinedly at slivers of thought, remnants of memory, morsels of awareness - striving to exert control over the discord of Kirk’s mind and bend the mayhem to his will. But he could not. Thoughts melted through his metaphorical fingers, fluttered erratically like dying butterflies always just beyond his reach and vanished into vapor.

 

Around him, the tempest raged, and a distant wail rose and fell with the chaos. A primal cry. No words. No reason behind it. Just the cry, not unlike that of a wounded animal, calling out of mercy, for comfort, for succor.

 

Jim.

 

Calling out with his mind, in the only way he knew.

 

Spock drew back, seeking calm, centering himself. This was not a battle he could win through force. He must seek another way.

 

A memory came to him – a grim faced Jim Kirk, uniform coated in filth, skin smudged with soot, kneeling in the dust of some distant outpost. A security party accompanied by Kirk, Spock, and McCoy had beamed down to the small colony world shortly after a reported attack by pirates - possibly Orion, though Orion had denied all responsibility. The colony had been decimated. They had wandered through a landscape of blasted craters, scorched fields, and smoldering buildings, some still ablaze. There were few survivors. They’d found a child. A young Andorian male, hidden amongst the rocks, a sharp knife clenched in his fist. The security guard who had first approached the boy had taken a deep wound across his forearm when the frightened child struck out in anger and fear. And now, while McCoy patched up the security officer and muttered unhappily about reckless starship captains, Kirk knelt in the dirt and reached out to the fierce, blue-skinned child clutching a bloodied blade. He did not try to touch the boy, merely reached out a hand, palm upward, and spoke soothing words while McCoy fumed and Spock remained poised to intervene if necessary. Gently, with his soft words and open hand, Jim Kirk had coaxed the boy out of the shadows and into his lap.

 

Open palm. Not closed fist.

 

 

Spock ceased his efforts to snare Kirk’s thoughts, and instead opened himself - projecting security, serenity, a harbor against the storm…

 

Home.

 

And gently, he coaxed James Kirk into the shelter of his Vulcanian mind.

 

****

 

McCoy was just approaching the outer doors to sick bay with his burden when they swished open unexpectedly and he found himself face to face with Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott and two security guards. Scott balked in surprise, eyes widening as he took in the peculiar sight of a disheveled Christine Chapel draped limply in McCoy's arms. To his credit, he found his voice somewhat faster than the red-faced CMO.

 

"Doctor McCoy!" he exclaimed. "What in blazes is going on down 'ere? I get a call on the bridge sayin' there's some kind of medical emergency in sick bay, and then I can't get any answer on the com."

 

"Sorry, Scotty," McCoy grunted, shifting his hold once again as he felt Christine beginning to sag in the middle. "We had to evacuate sick bay. There wasn't anyone to answer the com. "

 

"Evacuate?" Though it hardly seemed possible, Scotty's dark eyes grew even rounder.

 

"Yep. Something to do with the captain's condition." The downward slide of warm flesh had begun again, and McCoy finally abandoned all propriety in the face of impending disaster. "Here.” He braced himself for one last exertion and heaved Christine's limp body into the arms of a dumbfounded Mister Scott. "Take her into the hallway."

 

As he turned and hurried back towards ICU, McCoy realized that the painful pressure and confusion that had been clouding his thoughts had eased. "And don't worry, he shouted over a shoulder. "I think Spock has everything under control."

 

"Under control?" Scotty glanced down at the unconscious woman in his arms, and shot a glare after the retreating back of the CMO. "Are you daft, man?"

 

 

*****

 

"Spock!"

 

_Interference. A summons. Someone calling from the edge of consciousness. Who? Why do they call us?_

_Ignore it. It does not belong. Only we belong. We drift. Entwined._

"Spock, come out of it man!"

 

_This time, sensation. Someone shaking our (?) shoulders. Annoyance. Why will they not desist? Let us be._

"Spock, dammit!"

 

_A slap. Smarting cheek. Awareness._

_McCoy._

_Affirmation._

_We must go._

_Denial._

_We must part... **I** must go. **You** must stay._

_Panic!_

_I will return._

_Alarm! Need! Desperation!_

_There is no fear. I am with you. Rest._

 

 

Spock gently dissolved the tendrils of thought that connected him to the mind of James Kirk, pulling out of the meld as softly as a mother tip-toes away from the cradle of her sleeping child.

 

"Spock!" the voice was too harsh in Spock's ear. The grip of fingers, painfully tight around his upper his arm.

 

"Please, Doctor..." he rasped, voice rough from disuse. "You may unhand me."

 

The fingers loosened and Spock straightened, taking a deep, restorative breath before turning a bland eye on the CMO hovering at his side. "You required something?"

 

The dim lighting of the ICU accented the lines and shadows of McCoy's blunt visage, making him appear even more dour than usual. "You've been in here for hours, Spock," he muttered, keeping his tone low so as not to disturb the fragile peace that seemed to have settled over Jim Kirk.

 

"The captain was in need."

 

McCoy's professional eye flickered over the quietly resting Kirk, then homed in on Spock, noting the drawn face, the sallow coloring, the faint tremor of the fine hands. "I know, but even you can't sustain a mind link indefinitely. You're exhausted. You've got to rest."

 

"I cannot leave him. The barriers I have erected in his mind will not endure without continual monitoring and support."

 

"So what are you going to do? You can't stay with him constantly."

 

"I realize that, Doctor." It was testimony to Spock's extreme fatigue that he did not even try to conceal the bleak anguish behind that statement.

 

"Well...um..." McCoy licked his lips and glanced away, uncomfortable with the naked emotions haunting Spock's dark eyes. "That Nar-Qi bastard has been practically battering down the doors trying to get in here. Half the medical staff wants to sedate him, and the other half wants to do something that involves an airlock, and it is getting damned tempting just to let them have at it. Oh… and Scotty wants to talk with you. The Torrus have been asking if we are going to accept their 'song of healing,' whatever the hell that is. They seem to think you know."

 

"Yes," Spock sighed and straightened his shoulders. "I have been negligent in my duties as temporary commander, however, the captain's condition was critical." He turned to McCoy, Vulcanian mask once more firmly in place. "I am prepared to provide Mister Scott on a full briefing of the Torran proposal; however, whether we choose to accept or reject this offer will have profound and far reaching consequences for us all. I therefore think it would be prudent to include all department heads in the briefing." He glanced back at the sleeping captain, his voice unconsciously shifting from the precise clipped tones of command to a softer murmur of concern. "It is important I remain near the captain. He made have need of me. If it would not be an imposition I would like to request the use of your office for the briefing."

 

McCoy smiled in understanding. "Certainly, Spock. That won't be a problem."

 

"Then if you will convey my summons, I shall meet with all department heads in your office in twenty minutes. Please inform Mister Scott that Doctor Nar-Qi and his team may now beam down to the planet to meet with the Torran ambassador."

 

“Is that safe?” McCoy looked troubled. “I mean, personally I don’t care if those giant spuds turn his brain into synth-gel, but won’t Starfleet make a stink about it?”

 

“The Torrus have expressed their regret over the unfortunately attack upon the Captain. It was a matter of miscommunication. I can vouch for their sincerity as I have been in mental contact with the Ambassador Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon concerning this matter.”

 

“Have you now?” McCoy gave him the hairy eyeball. “That’s interesting, since none of the rest of us knew about it, and I am pretty certain we would not have agreed.” Studying Spock's bland mien, McCoy snorted, “Which is precisely why we didn’t know about it, I suppose.”

 

Spock, for his part, offered neither confirmation nor denial, merely cocked an eyebrow at McCoy.

 

McCoy sighed and glanced towards the pale form of James Kirk in the bio-bed. "I'll let everyone know about the meeting, and pass on the message about Nar-Qi.” His gaze shifted to Spock, running a critical eye over the Vulcanian first officer. “I know you are doing everything you can for Jim, but don’t burn yourself out, Spock. We need you too.” He reached out to give one slender blue clad shoulder a light squeeze then ducked out of the room.

 

Spock closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself, then sank down into the chair beside Kirk's bed and stretched forth trembling fingers.

 

"My mind to yours..."

 

*****

 

"With the psychic trauma compounding the physical damage the captain's suffered, it's hard to make at prognosis at this time..." McCoy sat back in his chair and shared a look with each one of the tense faces ringing his office; Scotty, Sulu, and Uhura. His glance came to rest ultimately upon the stoic visage of the Vulcan sitting rigidly upright in a chair that had been arranged at one end of the desk. "The mind melds appear to be helping, but that's not a treatment I particularly sanction."

 

One dark, Vulcanian eyebrow canted upward. "I find it hard to understand why any doctor, even one's whose methods are, on occasion, as dubious as your own, would choose to disapprove a therapy that has proven successful?"

 

"You know why!" McCoy bristled, leaning forward to nail Spock with an uncompromising blue-eyed glare. The Vulcan was striving for nonchalance, but McCoy easily noted and catalogued the rigid posture, the shadows around the deep set eyes, the fine lines of tension around the mouth. "Because you're not indestructible, Spock! You can't maintain the level of esper-energy you're expending without risking a mental burnout! If you keep it up you could suffer a complete telepathic breakdown that would leave you in no better shape than the captain!" He punctuated the argument by slammed an angry hand down on the desk. "And I won't allow it!"

 

"The Doctor's right, Mister Spock," seconded Mr. Scott from his position, perched on the edge of McCoy's desk. "You're in command now. We canna be riskin' yew as well!"

 

Spock looked as though he would like to debate the issue, but even he could not escape the "logic" of the doctor's words. His prolonged efforts to fortify Kirk's damaged psyche had drained him to a point where his own shields were in danger of collapse. To continue would put them both at risk. "I concede your point, gentlemen," he acquiesced, causing a slight stir of surprise among the Humans present. Did they really think he would fail to recognize the logic involved?   "Which is the precise reason I called this briefing. The Torrus have offered a possible solution to the situation, and although the final decision will up to myself and Doctor McCoy, I would welcome your input."

 

Mr. Scott folded his arms across his chest, and cocked a query at Spock.   "Just what do the wee beasties have in mind?"

 

The Vulcan steepled his fingers as he considered the most efficient way to express the core concepts of the Torran offer to a group of non-telepaths. "The Torrus wish to... make amends for the injury they have inflicted upon Captain Kirk. They realize now that he meant them no harm, and their... collective consciousness... if you will, feels remorse for their action. One way to alleviate this remorse is to undo the damage."

 

"How do they propose to do that, Mister Spock?" Lieutenant Uhura, inquired, stylus poised to input any necessary notes to accompany a Starfleet report into her PADD.

 

"By establishing a permanent mental bond with the captain, a telepathic sharing that would shield the captain's mind from inadvertent contact with the mental emanations of others."

 

"Like a mind meld?" Sulu asked, eager to show he’d been listening during the briefing about Kirk’s current condition and Spock’s rather unorthodox solution.

 

"No." Spock's lips flattened in distaste. He found it objectionable to discuss something so personal, but it was essential his colleagues have all the information they needed to fully understand the Torran offer.   "A mental bonding goes far deeper than a meld, and is much stronger... more... intimate."

 

"You mean they want to absorb him into the collective!" McCoy's yelped in waspish tones of disapproval.

 

"No, Doctor. I do not. The captain's individuality, the essence of who he is, could not survive prolonged exposure to the Torran world song. Rather, the Torrus propose that a single Torrd accompany us, as a member of the crew and as the captain's mental partner."

 

The Humans exchanged looks that spoke of distrust and perplexity. "An' what exactly does that mean?" Scott inquired.

 

"It means, Engineer, that in exchange for mental stability the captain must share consciousness with an alien mind, possibly for the remainder of his life."

 

There was a stunned hush as those present confronted the implications of this statement.

 

"Oh, my God..." McCoy blanched, his words of disbelief echoing the sentiments of everyone in the room. "Spock, we can't condemn Jim to that! There's got to be another solution! What about a Vulcanian healer? You said if we could get him to a healer..."

 

"That was before Torran attack, Doctor. The Captain is in esper-crisis. Even with my continued mental assistance he... would not make it to the Starbase 16, the closest location with access to a healer.”

 

"Well... there's got to be something..." With unseeing eyes, McCoy scanned the objects on his desk, his focus inward in search of a solution, something that would save Kirk's life without sacrificing his personal integrity. "What if we did allow the Torrd to bond with Jim? Couldn't we then take him to Starbase 16 or Vulcan and have a healer dissolve the bond and repair his mind?" He glanced at the first officer hopefully. "They'd be right there to help with any complications."

 

The grim set of Spock's mouth did not ease. "I have considered that possibility. I would estimate the chances that even the most skilled healer could successfully dissolve such a deep bond without damage to either bond partner as less than four percent."

 

"What? No decimal places, Spock?” McCoy snarled, his churlish words a ruse to cover profound dismay.

 

"It was an estimate," Spock replied, expression neutral, "and as such, subject to imprecision."

 

Face pinched with strain, McCoy glared at the Vulcan. "You sound almost like you want to hand Jim over to those Torrus and let them crawl around inside his mind!"

 

"Doctor," there was an edge to Spock's tone than warned of pressures building beneath the placid surface. "Emotional outbursts will not help to resolve the situation. It is not only the captain's well being we must consider. From birth through death, each individual Torrd is able to contact the Torran collective world song, to become a... 'musician' in a constantly shifting racial symphony.   Establishing telepathic communication is, for a Torrd, as natural as breathing. However, in order to protect the captain's personality from mental dissipation, the Torrd who bonds with him will have to sever all contact with the Torran collective. In essence, what the Torrus are willing to do is comparable to you agreeing to render yourself deaf, blind and speechless."

 

Spock's words seemed momentarily to have done just that. For several seconds, no one in the crowded office seemed able to find anything to say.

 

It was McCoy who finally spoke. "I'm sorry, Spock," he murmured, as contrite as his irascible nature would allow. "I didn't realize."

 

If he had been Human, Spock would have chosen that moment to indulge in a heartfelt sigh of exasperation, as it was he merely quirked an eyebrow. "It is hardly logical to offer an apology to me, Doctor. I am not here to pass judgment, merely to relate pertinent data."

 

McCoy looked as though he weren't quite willing to believe that, but he subsided into silence.

 

Ever the pragmatist, it was Mister Scott who voiced the issue they'd been warily skirting. "Mister Spock, am I to understand that the captain must bond with one of those beasties or he will die?"

 

"There is a twenty five percent possibility the captain could survive unbonded," Spock corrected, "however, without telepathic intervention, he will certainly become incurably psychotic. The only way to insure his continued mental as well as physical well being is the establishment of a mental bonding with an individual capable of helping him erect mental shields."

 

"Well then," Scott shook his head, "there's nothing for it. Whatever we think of the Torrus, we have to go through with it."

 

"Scotty!" McCoy protested. "We can't just...

 

"Would you rather let the captain die, Leonard? Aye," he nodded in sympathy, "it sticks in my craw too, but I don't see any other way."

 

"And what about Starfleet," snapped McCoy, unwilling to give up the argument. "What are we supposed to tell them? Don't you think they might have something to say about having one of their starship captains bonded to one of those... those... aliens? How do we know it won't affect his command ability?"

 

"We don't," Spock replied, expression impassive. "However, from what I learned while in telepathic communication with the Torrus I consider it unlikely that the proposed bond will in anyway interfere with the captain's ability to function as an individual entity. I realize that the concept of telepathic bonding may be difficult for many of you to comprehend, but the captain will not be diminished by the experience. Rather, his awareness will expand as he incorporates the insight of the Torrd into his own perceptions."

 

"What if Starfleet doesn't buy that?" McCoy shot back, arms folded across his chest, his words a battering ram directed at Spock's certitude.   "What if they decide to relieve him of command?"

 

Spock allowed one eyebrow to creep into his hairline. "Then, as Chief Medical Officer and the captain's personal physician, I would expect you to make use of your not inconsiderable powers of persuasion to convince them that their fears are groundless, and that the captain is perfectly fit for command." He paused just long enough for McCoy to recoil in surprise at the implied praise before concluding, "Just as I would expect you to raise concerns if, after examining the captain, you disagree with that assessment, Doctor."

 

McCoy was still stewing over an appropriate reply to these words when Spock added, somewhat reluctantly, "It is unfortunate that the Torrus are not more Humanoid in appearance and mental emanations. The.... dissimilarity... may cause the captain some difficulty."

 

Sulu glanced around the table at the others. "What do you mean?"

 

"Human and Torran code and organize information using very different methodologies. The adjustment in thinking processes could prove unsettling."

 

McCoy's eyes narrowed warily. "Are you saying that these Torrus are so different that Jim might reject the bonding, like used to happen with organ transplants before the use of cloned tissues?"

 

"Your comparison, while characteristically inexact, Doctor, is illustrative of the problem. Due to the differences in their physiologies, a bonding between a Human and a Torrd could be unstable. However," Spock quickly added before McCoy could launch into another of his tirades, "the possibility of the captain experiencing anything more than mild discomfort is negligible. Kirk has, as I have noted in the past, a very dynamic mind. I suspect, of the two, it will be the Torrd who will find accommodating the bond the most difficult."

 

"I still don't like it," growled McCoy like a bad tempered dog unwilling to give up a favorite bone.

 

"Neither do I," Spock replied. "But as Mister Scott pointed out, we have little choice.   If the captain does not bond with a telepath capable of shielding his mind from the mental emanations of others within a matter of hours, he will either die or suffer irreparable mental damage. Continuing to debate the issue for much longer will soon render the matter null and void. The decision must be made and made quickly."

 

McCoy glanced around, noting that everyone's attention seemed to be focused upon him. Apparently, through some sort of silent nomination, he had been appointed the voice of dissent . If Spock convinced him, the others would follow suit. He wanted to protest, wanted to demand some other answer, but he could think of nothing else to offer and Spock was right when he said they were running out of time. Whatever they decided in the next few minutes was going to have a profound affect upon Jim Kirk the remainder of his life and his was the one voice missing from this debate. What would he want? What would he ask for? Insanity or death? Life or individuality? Continuance or uniqueness? McCoy was certain of only one thing. He believed in life. He'd made it his life's work and passion to fight death, to beat back the shadows of darkness using all his intuition, medical knowledge and the tools of his profession. He could not allow a friend to cross into that cold void while the chance remained that he could be saved. He only hoped they were making the right choice. "All right," he grumbled, sagging back in his chair. "Let's do it, an' pray Jim forgives us."

 

Spock nodded and rose to his feet. "Then, gentlemen, if there are no further questions?" He waited a beat, then continued when no one chose to speak, "The briefing is concluded. If you will all return to your duties, I shall supervise the situation from here."

 

In subdued silence, the attending department heads filed out of the room, leaving Spock and McCoy alone.

 

“Well, Spock,” McCoy barked, the dour cast to his features making it evident he disapproved of the entire predicament. “Congratulations! You got your way.”

 

But Spock seemed less triumphant than resigned. “I do not recall that you offered any viable alternatives.”

 

McCoy’s expression curdled even further. “Just because I don’t have another idea doesn’t mean this is the right one!” He frowned and stood. “At least try to pick one of those Torrd things that doesn’t smell too bad or make everyone sick every time it shows up on the bridge.” He headed towards the door, muttering more to himself than Spock. “Maybe some of them come in pretty colors.”

 

But Spock stepped into his path. “Doctor, if I may. I would like to request a few more moments of your time.”

 

McCoy was heartsick, and in no mood to indulge the Vulcan at the moment. "What it is?  I've got to check on Jim. After all, I'm the one who has to certify him fit to act as a lab specimen for this little experiment of yours." He saw the Vulcan flinch and regretted, not for the first time, his inability to keep a reign on his temper. True, Spock had unintentionally contributed to the events that had made this difficult decision necessary, but none of this was really his fault, and harsh outbursts like that would do nothing to alleviate the situation.  

 

"Sorry, Spock..." He ran a hand behind his neck, massaging tight muscles. "It's been a rough day."

 

"Indeed," Spock braced one hand on the desktop. "I concur."

 

The Vulcan had maintained firm command of himself during the briefing, but now his composure was slipping, and McCoy could see just what the last several hours had cost the first officer. Spock seemed on the verge of keeling over, and although, as a friend, it warmed McCoy that the Vulcan trusted him enough to allow such a lapse in his presence, as a doctor, it set his alarm bells clamoring.

 

"Here..." He resisted the urge to take Spock by the arm, knowing that in his weakened condition the physical contact could breach his mental shields. Instead, he gestured towards a chair. "Sit down before you fall down. Now, what is it you needed to tell me."

 

Spock's collapse into the chair was characterized by none of his usual grace, and he took a moment to compose himself before answering. "I am guilty of omission. During the briefing, I failed to mention that there is another possibility available to us."

 

McCoy's eyebrows rose. "Another possibility? Something that would help Jim?"

 

Spock nodded.

 

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

 

Spock seemed to ponder the question. "The matter is... of a private nature. I did not wish to broach it in an open forum."

 

"But you'll discuss it with me."

 

Spock cocked his head at the doctor, his look one of barely disguised irony. "You are the CMO. I could hardly embark upon a course of action involving the captain without your becoming aware of it."

 

"Oh, I see," McCoy crossed his arms with a petulant harrumph. "So it's not my professional opinion you're after, you just don't want me to get in the way."

 

Spock was apparently too fatigued to exchange the customary verbal fisticuffs with the doctor. "In point of fact, Leonard, I would value your counsel. I find I am not exactly impartial upon this issue."

 

 _Leonard?_ The use of his first name cut straight through McCoy’s defenses. With anyone else, the cynic in him would have suspected manipulation, but not with Spock. The Vulcan didn’t operate that way. Taking his cue from the first officer, McCoy relaxed into a more informal mode, perching himself on the edge of his desk. "Certainly. What can I do?"

 

"While it is true that the captain requires a telepathic bond to augment his ability to shield and repair the damage of the esper-trauma, it is not prerequisite that the telepathic partner be a Torrd."

 

McCoy brows drew together in a frown. "I don't understand."

 

"There is another telepath on board who could form such a bond and might even find the experience... desirable."

 

"Who...?" But McCoy realized even as the word slipped past his lips. "Spock! You're not talking about yourself?"

 

This time Spock did sigh. "I fail to understand the Human predilection for couching a positive statement in a negative framework. You are well aware that I am referring to myself. There is, you must admit, a somewhat limited number of suitable candidates available."

 

McCoy leaned forward apprehensively. "Do you know what you're saying?"

 

There was a very un-Vulcanian twinkle of amusement in the dark eyes as Spock regarded the doctor. "If, by that illogical statement, you are asking whether I fully comprehend the ramifications of my proposal, I would answer that I, perhaps more than anyone, am in a somewhat unique position to anticipate the possible consequences to both myself and to Jim."

 

"But Spock..."

 

Spock held up a hand, forestalling further protests for the moment. "Leonard, Jim and I have shared a link for some time, a... residual effect of our repeated mind melds.” He shifted almost imperceptibly in his chair, which was as close as a Vulcan could come to fidgeting with chagrin. "It was a situation I could have rectified, but chose not to. The link provides me with a sense of connection with the captain, an awareness of him that could, and has, proven useful in hazardous situations." He exchanged a meaningful look with the doctor. As the captain's closest companions, they had both had more than their share of dealing with the aftermath of said hazardous situations on the mind and body of James T. Kirk.

 

"On occasion," Spock continued, clasping his hands before him on the table, "I have heard you express the desire to keep the captain on a leash, I presume, in expectation of curtailing some of his more impulsive behavior. If you wish, you may think of the link as a mental leash of sorts. It cannot be used to prevent Jim from undertaking any action he chooses, even those I deem ill-advised, nor would I elect to use it in that manner if it were possible. Mental constraint was never the purpose of the link. However, it does allow me to monitor Jim's whereabouts and mental state when necessary."

 

McCoy was listening to Spock's disclosure in rapt fascination. Sudden revelation illuminated his craggy features, and he snapped a finger at the Vulcan. "That's how you knew Jim was still alive when he was trapped in Tholian space!"

 

"It... was a factor."

 

McCoy flapped his arms in agitation. "Well, why didn't you say anything?"

 

Spock bit back the impulse to sigh once again. Due to the doctor's predilection for irrelevancies, the conversation had veered somewhat from its intended course. However, it would do no harm to indulge McCoy's questions, and might even engender his cooperation in the matter of the bond. "Humans harbor some... misconceptions concerning telepathic abilities. Though I never used the link in any way that would have interfered with the captain's autonomy or invade his privacy, there are those who would have suspected some sort of mental coercion on my part. I did not wish to reveal anything that might bring into question the captain's command ability."

 

McCoy had to agree with the Vulcan on that. Starfleet bureaucracy might be tolerant of alien practices, but that did not mean they were ready to embrace them whole-heartedly, especially when they involved the captain and first officer of one of their Constellation class cruisers. "Does Jim know about the link?"

 

Spock's stiffened in affront, stung by the insinuation that he would keep such information from Kirk. "He can not sense me unless I allow him to; however, he is entirely aware that the link exists and could have requested its dissolution at any time. He did not."

 

McCoy pursed his lips in speculation. "So, he wanted it too."

 

"I would theorize as much. We rarely discussed the issue."

 

"Spock..." McCoy studied the Vulcan thoughtfully. "This bond you're suggesting... it's quite a bit more personal than the link you've been describing."

 

Spock inclined his head in confirmation.

 

"And more intrusive."

 

"Your point?"

 

"Are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, I'll be the first to admit that I don't much like the idea of Jim being bonded to some giant alien potato who makes me want to loose my lunch every time I see it, but... Oh, hell..." he glowered, "there is such a thing as 'beyond the call'. I realize you feel responsible for this whole thing, but I don't want to risk your mental well being as well."

 

A faint trace of something that might have been affection softened the austere countenance. "Do not concern yourself, Leonard. You are correct in your deduction of my motivations; however, the fact that I believe I owe an obligation to the captain does not necessarily decree that I find that obligation a distasteful one. Though I have often found fault with your 'logic' in the past, I cannot deny that you possess a exceptional talent for insight, and I am aware that you have suspected for some time that the captain... that Jim, is singularly important to me. Do you truly believe my willingness to form a mental bond with him is dictated by duty alone?"

 

McCoy's eyes went wide. "You want this," he breathed, looking at Spock in something akin to amazement. "You _want_ to bond with Jim!"

 

Again, the faint suggestion of amusement. "I believe that is what I have been trying to express."

 

"But, I thought... I mean... umm..." A disconcerted McCoy cleared his throat, trying for professionalism. "Everything I've read about bondings suggest they are pretty much exclusive to... ah... male and female married couples. Won't there be...uh... problems...?"

 

Spock seemed almost to be enjoying McCoy's discomfiture.   "Certainly there will be complications..." he admitted. "However, the situation is not without precedent. Though seen as unconventional in modern Vulcan society, male bondings are not forbidden. Vulcans even have a name for such relationships. _Kun-ut_ _Tu-Puksu_. The Way of the Warriors. It was a common choice among young males in ancient times."

 

"In ancient times... what about here and now? What about your family?" McCoy badgered. "What about T'Pau and Vulcan? Will they accept...?

 

"As you may or may not be aware," Spock commented dryly, "my parents share one of the few Vulcan-Human bondings in history, a union considered quite controversial at the time of their marriage. If they find reason to object, I will merely point out that I am guided by a family tradition that follows the doctrine of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations. As for the reaction of Vulcan, they would find it difficult to refute my decision. It is, under the circumstances, the most logical choice. "

 

"But what will it do to you, a bond like that? How will something like that effect you and Jim? What does it _feel_ like...?" Realizing how invasive such questions would seem to a man who valued privacy as much as Mr. Spock, McCoy sought to explain himself. "I'm not being some kind of voyeur, Spock. It's just that, as your doctor..."

 

"I quite understand," Spock assured, steepled fingers brushing his lower lip as he contemplated.   "However, I do not think I can provide you with the answers you seek." He tilted a look at McCoy almost apologetically. "The... telepathic connection that exists between bond mates is... difficult to explain.   The touching of minds is so intimate... so personal... the feelings involved of such intensity that I do not think I can find appropriate words to express them in a context you would comprehend."

 

"The ' _feelings_ involved'..." McCoy's eyebrows nearly shot through the ceiling. "Are you telling me that you can't explain because the bonding experience is too emotional!"

 

Spock's expression made it obvious that he hadn't considered the matter from quite that perspective; however, after a moment of thought he capitulated in a motion that was half shrug half nod. "Essentially correct."

 

McCoy shook his head, appearing dazed. "Well, that's a first..."

 

"Indeed." Spock made a move to rise. "Now, Doctor. It is time I returned to the captain."

 

"Not so fast," McCoy held out a restraining arm. "I still have a few questions."

 

Half out of his seat, the Vulcan shot an expectant look at the doctor, but McCoy had made no move to vacate his own perch, an indication that those "few questions" might take a while. Resigning himself to fielding further "irrelevancies" from the doctor, Spock sank back down in his chair and waited.

 

Now that he had the Vulcan's attention, McCoy seemed at a loss as how exactly to phrase what was on his mind. He fretted a few moments, rising to pace the room before firming his resolve and stumbling brusquely ahead. "After what happened on Vulcan with T'Pring..." he broke off, wishing to spare Spock the discomfort of those particular memories, "Well... I did a little digging into Vulcanian marriage practices." Shooting the Vulcan a stubborn look, he continued in gruff tones, "I'm your doctor. I wanted to avoid any similar surprises in the future, and I thought it important that I know all I could. My interest was purely professional."

 

Spock nodded, somewhat bemused by McCoy's apparent vexation. "I did not suspect otherwise. You would have been remiss in your duty had you not made some inquiries into the matter."

 

The reply seemed to mollify McCoy somewhat and his defiance melted away to be replaced by more reposed attitude of shared camaraderie. "It wasn't easy finding out anything, you know? You Vulcans guard your privacy more closely than the Hydra of Vester guard their young."

 

"But you did find out something." Spock quirked an expectant eyebrow. McCoy was too much a professional and time too short for the doctor to have engaged him in a purely philosophical discussion of Vulcanian mating practices.

 

"I did." A forbidding frown tugged at McCoy's features. "Spock, is it true that when one member of a bonded pair dies the other member dies also? That one can't survive without the other?"

 

If Spock was surprised by the inquiry, it was not revealed in his impassive reply. “The death of a bond mate often results in the death of the other, yes, but it is not an imperative. Rather it is a conscious choice on the part of the surviving member. With the death of one's bond mate the mental pain resulting from a broken bond and the grief over the loss of one's life mate are so overwhelming, that death often seems... a welcome alternative to the mental and emotional turmoil."

 

“I see.” McCoy tugged at his lower lip. “Spock, you and Jim aren't exactly leading the quiet life at a Mars retirement colony. You're both in positions that put you in a great deal of danger. I don't have to tell you how many times we've had to pull one or both of you out of the fire or patch you up when you've gotten singed around the edges, what happens if...” He fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with having to voice his thoughts. Though not a particularly superstitious person, McCoy couldn’t help shake the feeling that by speaking his fears aloud he might draw the unwanted attention of the Fates. “What I mean is… the ship might survive the loss of one of its commanding officers during a crisis... but to lose both of you because one can't survive without the other...”

 

Spock took pity on the physician and addressed the underlying concern. “If the captain and I bonded and something were to happen to him, my duty to this ship and to those aboard her would take precedent over any personal considerations. It would be... difficult... but I could continue to function despite the loss."

 

“But in what condition?”

 

“Impossible to predict without knowing the depth and intensity of the bond, and that cannot be determined until after the bond has been established.”

 

McCoy folded his arms. “That's not very comforting.”

 

“I was not trying to conciliate, merely providing information.”

 

“And what about Jim?” McCoy took to pacing again. “Could he carry on without you if he needed to?”

 

Spock considered. “The captain is not Vulcan. Though the loss of the bond would undoubtedly cause him great distress, he would not suffer the same mental pressures towards self-destruction. Nor would he be burdened with the expectations of a culture that deems it noble to follow one's bond mate into death.”

 

“But wouldn't he be right back where he started?” McCoy spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Without you to shield his mind, wouldn't he go insane or die anyway?”

 

Spock paused for a moment, turning away. For a moment his head dipped. Then he straightened, shoulders squared as he addressed his reply to the far end of the room, not to McCoy directly. “It is my intention to attempt to instruct him in the mental disciplines necessary to erect his own barriers. In time, he should master enough control to be able to safeguard his mental integrity without my continued assistance."

 

Expression cagey, McCoy circled into Spock’s line of sight. "Attempt to instruct...? Should master...? That sounds a little inconclusive, Spock.” He braced his hands on the desk and leaned forward, looming over the Vulcan. “What if it doesn’t work? What if you can't teach Jim how to shield? What then?”

 

Spock sat back further in the seat, but resisted the urge to stand and distance himself from the unwanted scrutiny of the overly astute physician. Folding his hands on the desktop, he sought to remain unruffled.

 

“Humans have a deplorable tendency to demand answers to questions about which there is little or no data available. The universe is full of possibilities, and it is illogical to speculate about events which may or may not occur contingent upon other events which also may or may not occur. In short, I cannot predict all the potential ramifications of establishing a mental bond with Jim, but I do know what will happen if I do not.” He lifted his gaze to the doctor, dark eyes as earnest as McCoy had ever seen them. His voice went soft and rough around the edges as he concluded. “I would rather incur the risk, wouldn't you?”

 

McCoy held that fervid stare for a long moment. "I'm convinced you want this bond, and that you have considered what it will mean to your relationship with the captain, but what about Jim?" McCoy's voice was gentle, but vehement. Such questions might not be easy for Spock, but they must be asked. "What if he doesn't want it? What if he wakes up and resents what you have done?" He reached out and very deliberately placed a hand on Spock's sleeve just above his wrist. "Could you handle that kind of rejection?"

 

This time Spock did not even attempt to hide the look of fondness that tempered his features. "Leonard, your concern is laudable; however, it is also unwarranted. Considering the seriousness of Jim's condition, I might have been tempted to proceed without his approval, but it was not necessary. As you know, I have been in close mental contact with the captain for several hours. He is aware of the situation and has consented to a bond. He finds it the most ... agreeable... alternative available."

 

"He told you that?"

 

Spock paused, deliberating over how much to reveal. The specifics might cause some doubt on the doctor's part. However, he was their friend and deserved truth, not deception. "Not in words. His mental condition has deteriorated to a point where language is beyond his capabilities. I ... sensed... his feelings on the matter."

 

McCoy sighed and ran a hand over his face, wishing he could simply wipe away the burdens of the last hours. "I guess I'll have to trust you on that. You're the telepath. I'm not really sure why you even wanted my opinion." He waved one arm in an offhanded gesture. "I'm a doctor, not a soothsayer."

 

"You are also Jim's friend," Spock announced, as though that answered everything.

 

"And the others? Aren't you even going to consult them about this?"

 

"If they are willing to acknowledge the necessity of a bond I do not think they would object to my superseding the Torrd.” He angled a glance at McCoy. "And I did inform them that the final decision would be up to the two of us."

 

McCoy returned the look. "And what if _I_ object?"

 

Spock's lips flattened in vexation. "That would be unfortunate. The bonding would be much easier to accomplish with your cooperation."

 

"Meaning you planned to go through with it even if I did raise a fuss."

 

The Vulcan apparently decided to keep his own counsel on that issue.

 

"That's what I thought," McCoy grumped out of the corner of his mouth. "Then I guess it's like Scotty says, there's nothing for it. I have to give my permission."

 

With a slight nod of gratitude, Spock rose. "It _would_ facilitate matters."

 

McCoy paused for one final moment of silent, internal debate before letting out a huff of air and indicating the door. "All right then. After you, Mister Spock. Let's go check on Jim, shall we?"

 

 

 

****13 days later****

 

 

Chin propped upon his folded arms, Jim Kirk watched the dappled lights of brilliantly burning stars slide by the viewport in the observation deck. He liked this room, liked its quiet, dim lighting and shadowy corners, the solitary sense of peace it brought him. He often came here to be alone with his thoughts.   Tucked like a forgotten secret along the upper portion of the hanger deck, the observation deck offered opposing sets of viewing portals.

 

Through one bank of windows, he could watch the activity on the flightdeck below–the coming and going of shuttles and maintenance bots, the members of the flight deck crew scurrying about their business, the movement of cargo loading and unloading – watch and keep a finger on the pulse of his ship and the life she carried aboard her. Across the aisle, another set of portals allowed him to gaze out at the stars through the thin skin of the ship, to lose himself in the vastness of space stretching outward and away.

 

And, as always, here he stood, straddling the two, holding the line between their fragile space borne home and the interstellar sea of unknowns upon which they sailed.

 

It was a fitting place for a starship captain to contemplate his place in the universe and, more immediately, his place inside his own head.

 

Which, at present, was less than assured.

 

Spock was known to comment that humans had a plethora of trite “sayings” which they apparently felt compelled to apply to almost any situation, and McCoy, for his part, was fond of applying them.

 

Kirk was presently contemplating a few of his own. Something about being careful what you wish for, and wanting being more satisfactory than having. However, those sentiments were counterbalanced by others, admonishing, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” as well as, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

 

Fact was, there were plenty of pithy sayings that might suffice, but what use were they to Kirk? What did the ancient philosophers know of mind links and bonding? Of the humiliation of having your inner most thoughts and insecurities laid bare? Of the shame of knowing your darkest secrets could be dragged into the light, exposed and revealed in their full repulsiveness…

 

Not that Spock would ever pry.

 

But still…

 

It bothered him, and no matter how many hoary, old platitudes McCoy trotted out and insisted he try on, he still felt that he was wrestling with something no one else could truly understand. No one except Spock of course - but he couldn’t go to Spock with this because Spock was the problem!

 

However, his innate honesty would not allow him to deny that he had wanted this.

 

Hadn’t he?

 

Had longed for it. Begged for it. Asked for it. And agreed to it. Of course, as McCoy would point out, he hadn’t exactly been operating on all thrusters at the time, and the alternatives of death or madness hadn’t really left him much of a choice.

 

Still. It was a decision he had made, and now he needed to learn how to live with it. Only, he didn’t really know how to begin to do so. He was no longer alone in his head, and it left him feeling naked, vulnerable and frightened in ways he never had before.

 

He knew his recent erratic behavior was the result of his own fears and anger at finding himself caught in this situation. But who had ever said the universe was fair? Even Starfleet’s Golden Boy had to be prepared for some hard knocks. That was the reality. He knew he was hiding. And he also knew it made no difference. Although, at the moment he wanted nothing more than to get as far away from Spock as allowed by the limited confines of a starship, he also knew that running half way across the galaxy would not be far enough. Spock was now a part of him, and Kirk could not hide from him, anymore than he could hide from himself.

 

Though over the past few days, he’d been making attempts to do both, and, if he was being honest, doing a piss poor job of it.

 

Kirk reached up and massaged the back of his neck. He felt another super-sized headache on the way. He’d been getting a lot of those lately. _Stress_ , McCoy offered in his singularly unhelpful way. Spock had tried to teach him methods for reducing the tension through Vulcanian meditation - the _kohl-tor_. The problem being that when Kirk was agitated, he found it very hard to calm his inner “ _shal_.” And the headaches tended to strike when he was agitated, of course.

 

Simple logic.

 

Presently, McCoy’s dispensary offered a better chance of relief, but that meant risking running into the irascible doctor, and Kirk was still smarting from their last encounter. No, he would just have to “deal” with the headache along with everything else

 

 

_*????*_

 

The inquiry came, not in words, but in simple understanding. The closest translation he could formulate was something akin to, _“Are you well?”_ or _“Should I be concerned?”_ A query as to location along with a hint of _disquiet_. He was obviously projecting again.

 

The decoding was nearly automatic, but unnecessary. It was something he was still learning. Natural telepaths, Spock had explained, did not need to commune in words. However, as a Human who was used to verbal communication, Kirk had initially couched all his mental conversation in “words.”

 

In fact, during those first disorienting days, as he tried to accommodate to the new bond with Spock, he had taken refuge in that which was most familiar - spoken language. Restless and bedridden, he had frequently engaged in tense, sometimes volatile, discussion with what must have appeared to others to be a mere figment of his imagination. Even McCoy, who had known Kirk was in actuality conversing with Spock, had appeared flustered by the situation. It didn’t help matters that the Vulcan continued to carry out his duties with implacable calm, demonstrating no outward indication that he was immersed in mental conversations with Kirk, even when their tête-à-tête grew downright contentious.

 

Thankfully, the need to verbalize the exchanges with Spock had faded by the time McCoy released Kirk from Sickbay, thus the captain hadn’t had to deal with trying to explain to concerned crewmembers his tendency to walk around muttering to himself.

 

A surge of petulance over the whole situation urged Kirk to disregard the Vulcan’s entreaty as to his current state of mind. However, if he did, he knew Spock would just track him down, and with the bond between them, doing so was irritatingly easy these days. Besides, ignoring Spock was just pettiness on his part. Doing so would only lend credence to McCoy’s most recent accusations. “Self-pity does not suit you,” he’d scolded after finding Kirk sulking in Engineering. “This isn’t easy for Spock either, so pull your head out of your ass and stop behaving like a toddler having a tantrum!”

 

As much as he valued McCoy’s unbridled honesty, there were times Kirk regretted the whole, “speak freely” thing they had going.

 

Still, he was man enough to admit the doctor had a point, so with a rare and rueful bout of introspection, he resisted the temptation to growl, _“Leave me alone!”_ while slamming a mental door in Spock’s face. Rather, he did his best to project assurances that he was, _“doing just fine, Spock.”_

 

The second mental probe seemed slightly _skeptical_. Okay, so apparently charming deflection did not work so well on a telepathic plane. If he admitted it, very few of his tricks served him in this particular arena. He felt unsettled… insecure. It was all so damn hard.

 

Another mental touch, this one of _reassurance_. A metaphysical pat on the back of sorts. _“I’m here. You’re okay,”_ or something.

 

Or something.

 

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? The “or something.” What was _he?_ What were _they?_ What exactly was all this? And why couldn’t he just accept and adapt? Why the need to fight this thing between them?

 

 _Amusement_.

 

Kirk bristled. Damn that Vulcan.

 

Feeling decidedly uncooperative, Kirk didn’t want compassion in return. It made him even more ashamed of his behavior.

 

 _“Acceptance is not your way.”_ And this time the communication was in words. Spock’s resonant tones murmured in his head, still trying to meet Kirk half-way, despite being repeatedly rebuffed as of late. _“You must test the boundaries. Tug the le-matya by the tail, as it were.   It is who you are.”_

 

Such fondness, and if he admit it to himself, _love_. There was no hiding from the bond. He was loved, and he fought, and was mortified.

 

_“I’m sorry, Spock. I’m sorry. I’m no good at this. I’m sorry.”_

 

 _“Jim,”_ and affection was a bright, shining thread running through the thoughts, entwining with them like a filigree of gold. “ _You are who you are. When you are ready, you will come to me, and we will go forward together.   I knew when I chose this, that the path would be difficult for both of us. I deemed it worth the struggle. I do not seek to cage you. I would not. To do so would be a travesty. You are as free as you have ever been.”_

 

_“Am I?”_

 

 _“Always…”_ And the sense of presence faded. Spock was shielding again, heavily this time. Kirk was alone. Truly alone, isolated in ways he had never realized before the bond. It was both liberating and painful. He desired it, and yet he hated it.

 

He sighed and dropped his forehead into his folded arms. “Damn.”

 

Damn Spock. Damn the Torrus. Damn Rocas and Ruel. Damn Vulcans and mind links and damn the whole capacious universe and everything in it - himself most of all!

 

He let the wave of resentment and despair wash through him, bitter and caustic. Pointless vanity. He indulged it, reveled in it for a moment... then let it go. Let it slip away with his ragged breath.

 

He found himself chuckling, less in amusement than self-mockery. McCoy was right. He really needed to extract his head from his hind end and get on with getting on. Lifting his head, he gazed out at the pinprick lights that spoke of distant suns and distant worlds. The lights were blurry, and that was when he realized there were tears on his face.

 

 _“Buck up, Jimmy. Your problems are only as big as you let them be.”_ He recognized his father’s voice, George Kirk, whispering in his ear. Not a bond this time, just memory. _“A tidal wave or a ripple. It is up to you. You can choose to drown or to swim. So what is it going to be?”_

 

It was a voice he had heard many times throughout his life. A no-nonsense voice and one that had helped him survive the horrors of Tarsus IV, that had seen him though the chaos of his first space battle, that had steadied him the first time a crewmember died under his command - a young, security officer who had bled out in his arms under a sickly, yellow sky on some barren, dust ball in space.

 

“ _You don’t grow as a person by taking the easy path, son. You become a man, a good man, a brave man, by surviving the difficult path, by facing adversity, and coming out stronger for it. No one ever said life would be easy. It is, and should be a challenge. Take that challenge, Jim. Rise to it, and you will be that man_.”

 

The universe wasn’t going to wait around while he stamped his feet and pouted. He had a starship to run. He had worlds to explore. He had a life to live. Wallowing did not suit starship captains. Wallowing did not suit _him_.

 

Straightening, he scrubbed the wetness from his cheeks and tugged his shirt into place. “Take the challenge, Jim,” he told himself, then reached out with a thought.

 

_“Spock? Are you there?”_

 

A moment, then…. _“Jim? Are you well? Do you require assistance?”_

 

 _“I think…_ ” He paused, and tried again. _“I’m ready, Spock.”_

Silence, but the impression of deep satisfaction and relief _._ Then, _“I will await you in my quarters.”_

And James Tiberius Kirk strode out of the observation deck, looking ahead and intent upon the business of “getting on.”

 

 

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> The title to this story comes from a poem by Emily Dickinson:
> 
> The Brain -- is wider than the Sky --  
> For -- put them side by side --  
> The one the other will contain  
> With ease -- and You -- beside --
> 
> The Brain is deeper than the sea --  
> For -- hold them -- Blue to Blue --  
> The one the other will absorb --  
> As Sponges -- Buckets -- do --
> 
> The Brain is just the weight of God --  
> For -- Heft them -- Pound for Pound --  
> And they will differ -- if they do --  
> As Syllable from Sound –
> 
>  
> 
> Vulcan Telepathy: I have always found the customs of different societies beguiling - from earth based cultures, to those in fiction. The idea of exploring the Vulcanian civilization and the “mysticism” of the Vulcan mind-arts has enticed me from the beginning, and so I delved into them somewhat in this piece. One of the gratifying aspects of The Original Trek and Vulcanian culture is that so much was left “unexplored” and open to interpretation. For a writer, this is like being given a boundless sandbox in which to play! Is my version the definitive? Certainly not. It is just one more possibilities in a universe “full of possibilities”. 
> 
>    
> Vulcan Language: Vulcanian linguistics are very tricky, and I don’t begin to suggest I have any real understanding of the Vulcanian language. However, I have tried to be at least within the ballpark when it comes to my use of Vulcanian terminology, or as accurate as one can be using online sources for a language that does not actually exist. (Special thanks to the Vulcan Language Dictionary and the Vulcan Language Institute sites)
> 
> kae-kan riving: composed of kae (mind) kan (child) and rivinik (immature)
> 
> Kun-ut Tu-Puksu: composed of kun-ut (bonding) Tu- (Way of) and puksu (fighter)
> 
> kohl-tor: meditate (in the Vulcan manner)
> 
> shal: the essential self, the being of a person
> 
> le-matya: a large, desert dwelling predator native to Vulcan
> 
>  
> 
> The Torrus:
> 
> Singular - Torrd 
> 
> Plural -six or less - Torri
> 
> Plural more than six - Torrus also name of planet
> 
> Term of Respect -Torru
> 
> Adj - Torran
> 
> Are hermaphroditic - reproduce by budding


End file.
